


Red, White, Blue and Black

by shatteredwriters



Series: Brothers in Arms [3]
Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: Am I Really Writing New MASH Fics in 2020?, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce Whump, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Loves B. J. Hunnicutt, Everyone Loves Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Love These Characters and This Show, References to MASH (TV), Sorry Not Sorry, Tumblr Prompt, Whump, all the whump, hunnihawk if you really squint, like get some squinting in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24383908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredwriters/pseuds/shatteredwriters
Summary: Blinding pain engulfed his senses. There was a ringing in his ears that muted the outside world, blocking out all other sound. Hawkeye swayed on his feet, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other flailing out in a feeble attempt to find his attacker.“This is pay back, doc.”
Relationships: B. J. Hunnicutt & Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce
Series: Brothers in Arms [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1741429
Comments: 47
Kudos: 67





	1. Danger, Hawkeye Pierce

**Author's Note:**

> And I'm back! I've had this beginning of an idea written down for awhile, but I finally got some time to post! The tumblr prompt for this one is: Person A: “You think they’ll notice?” Person B: “I think they’d be f*cking stupid not to.” I know that doesn't make much sense now, so bear with me! This is 100%, unapologetically whumpy--couldn't help do another Hawkeye whump story (sorry not sorry). 
> 
> Sadly, do not own these characters, or this show. I'm just borrowing(: This is the first chapter of my third installment in my series, Brothers in Arms. There might be some references to the events from the earlier fics in this series, so you may want to read them first. But this can stand alone! 
> 
> Without further ado, here we go! I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Warning: This story has got language and some descriptions of violence.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The soldier that lay before him was more bloody bandage than man. Hawkeye held a sliver of hope as he bent down, fingers searching for a pulse. But he knew he was too late. The tall surgeon sighed heavily.
> 
> “Kelly…this one’s…this one’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter one of who knows how many. I couldn't help it, I just had to do another Hawkeye whump story. So, here we go! I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Warning: This story has got language and some descriptions of violence.

“Alright Kelly, this one goes first!”

Hawkeye swiped his arm across his brow. If only there was a break in his future…but the endless line of bodies in pre-op ensured a long day, and an even longer night. The sticky heat wave that had settled over the camp only added insult to injury. As if the fighting wasn’t terrible enough, now the days were miserably hot and humid. The 4077th was running on fumes. With the ever-present heat exhaustion, they were short staffed--the tempers of its surviving members were even shorter.

Ignoring the twinge in his back and the headache pulsing in his temples, Hawkeye moved quickly towards the next soldier.

_Babies._

_They’re just babies._

The soldier that lay before him was more bloody bandage than man. Hawkeye held a sliver of hope as he bent down, fingers searching for a pulse. But he knew he was too late. The tall surgeon sighed heavily.

“Kelly…this one’s…this one’s gone.”

Her sympathetic eyes met his. She gave him a curt nod and signaled two corpsmen. Unfortunately, this was business as usual and not an uncommon occurrence in the 4077th.

Hawkeye straightened up, ready to move on. He didn’t want to dwell on the young face, terror frozen in the kid’s glassy eyes...

“Hey! HEY! You can’t take him anywhere!”

A short-haired, burly soldier was shouldering his way towards Hawkeye. He had a manic look in his eye.

“You need to save him! STOP!”

The sergeant stripes on his shoulder were streaked with drying crimson. His auburn hair was disheveled, his hands filthy. He skidded to a halt in front of Hawkeye, eyes flying between his friend's body and the dark-haired surgeon.

Hawkeye recognized the lost look swirling in the soldier's brown eyes. They were eyes he'd seen more times than he could count. This was news he never wanted to give, and it never got any easier. 

_I really hate this part._

Hawkeye shook his head sadly.

“I’m sorry, sergeant. There’s nothing I can do for him. He’s already gone.”

“You’re-you're not even going to try?! That’s my _best friend_ lying there, you can’t just give up! Do something!”

Hawkeye locked his blue eyes on the sergeant as he contemplated his next move. The man was a few inches taller than him, and a good deal wider. Though physically imposing, _this was his OR dammit_ , and he didn't need healthy soldiers distracting him from the wounded. He felt for the guy, he really did. But they were overwhelmed, and Hawkeye didn't have the time for a fight.

“Look, I’m sorry. I truly am. But I’ve got other patients to get to-“

All of a sudden, the sandy-haired soldier closed the remaining distance between them. Invading Hawkeye’s personal space, he wrapped one hand tightly around the surgeon’s arm, and leaned in. His brown eyes were predatory, almost unhinged.

“You’re killing him doc. _Save. Him._ ”

Pre-op had fallen deathly silent. _Not a funny pun right now_ , Hawkeye mused. The look in the soldier's eye and the tone of his voice sent a shiver down Hawkeye's spine. He swallowed thickly, trying to quell the panic that bloomed in his chest. 

“Sergeant..."

Hawkeye cleared his throat, ignoring the fearful tremor in his voice.

"Sergeant. There is nothing I can do, I don’t know how many ways I can say it. Your friend is...gone.”

The sergeant stared at him, seeming to not understand. Seconds ticked by. Sweat beaded on Hawkeye's forehead and snaked its way down his neck, dampening his undershirt. Still no one was moving. The chaos of the OR next door even seemed muted, dulled. The only thing Hawkeye was aware of was the man in front of him, who was _seriously_ hurting and pissed off, who had an iron grip on his arm, and murder in his eyes.

Relief flooded his senses as Hawkeye saw Klinger and Igor sneak into his peripheral vision. He hoped that they were coming to escort this sergeant out, who miraculously seemed to be growing taller and stockier and scarier now that he was up close and personal. Hawkeye definitely _wasn't_ dwelling on the throbbing in his arm where the sergeant’s grip was ever-tightening. He also definitely wasn't thinking about the colorful, finger-shaped bruises that were bound to appear on his arm later. He was not a fan of violence, even less so when he was on the receiving end of it.

“Doc.”

The harsh word brought Hawkeye's attention back to the soldier. He had a strange expression on his face, as if he was uncertain about what to do. He kept looking from his friend’s body, painfully still on the bloodied litter, up to Hawkeye’s face and back. The surgeon, trying to keep his voice as calm and placating as possible, motioned for Klinger.

“Sergeant, these two men are going to escort you out of here. Now you can make a scene, or you can go quietly. The choice is yours.”

The sergeant dropped his grip from Hawkeye’s arm and took a step back. He locked eyes with the surgeon, indecision flickering over his face. Klinger and Igor had flanked the sergeant on both sides, almost close enough to grab him. Instantly, resolve transformed the man's features, and he knotted his hands into fists.

“What’s your name, doc?”

Confusedly, Hawkeye gave it to him.

“Pierce. Well, doc. I’m in this crummy place, fighting this crummy war. And the one good thing I found here was blown to bits by an enemy grenade. But it wasn’t Korea that killed him. _It was you_.”

The threatening words hung in the air between them as the sergeant took a swing at Hawkeye. The surgeon was too stunned to move. Trapped in place, Hawkeye waited for the blow to land.

_This is gunna hurt_.

But thankfully it never came. Once they realized the man's intentions, Klinger and Igor had lunged towards the sergeant. They managed to wrestle themselves in control of the fuming soldier, who only had eyes for Hawkeye. The sergeant's dark look was menacingly, and it sent a shiver down Hawkeye’s spine.

_It wasn’t Korea that killed him. It was you._

Hawkeye watched as the sergeant was bodily removed from pre-op, the man's words ringing in his ears. One by one, the nurses and corpsman resumed their duties. But Hawkeye was still rooted in place, his eyes fixed on the door Klinger and Igor had just taken the sergeant out of. 

“Doctor?”

Hawkeye shook himself from his stupor. Kelly was watching him, brows knitted in concern. She gestured towards the next patient and Hawkeye threw her an appreciative nod. Bending down to inspect the chest wound, he tried to push the interaction with the sergeant to the back of his mind. Even so, a twinge of unease still knotted in his gut.

The dangerous tone in the man's voice, the threat in his brown eyes.

_It was you_.

Hawkeye shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter coming soon (fingers crossed)!


	2. My Name is Sergeant Mackenzie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sergeant Harry "Mac" Mackenzie. That doctor didn't know his name. But before the night was over, he definitely would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello readers! Sorry, this is just a filler chapter. Gotta set the stage, ya'll! So please please please bear with me, the whump is coming (muahaha). I promise!!

Sergeant Harry “Mac” Mackenzie took a long draw on his cigarette, puffing the smoke out into the humid night. He couldn’t be certain how long he’d been standing there, eyes glued to the OR doors. But this was his third smoke and still no one had exited the building.

A slow burning anger flickered in his gaze, sending anyone who tried to come near him scrambling in the opposite direction. Mac felt slightly guilty, especially the way he had gruffly ignored the well-meaning priest. But he didn’t need absolution, and he didn’t need to give a confession. At least not yet. Right now, there was only thought on his mind: vengeance.

After the two corpsmen tossed him from pre-op, Mac had waited around. Had waited for _him._ The doctor’s piercing blue eyes, his disheveled salt and pepper hair, his tired expression…they all made his blood boil.

“That no good, murdering doctor…” Mac mumbled around his cigarette.

He knew _exactly_ what he was after. As crazy as it seemed, Mac blamed that gangly surgeon for Rudy’s death. Logically, he knew that there had been a slim chance his friend was going to survive. The grenade had exploded too close. But still, he sat by him the whole way here, never daring to leave his side. Had held his hand, talked to him as his eyes got glassier and glassier, his skin paler and colder. Mac had heard that the 4077th were like miracle workers. And by god did Rudy need a miracle.

So when that lanky doctor had refused to even try and save Rudy, something just… _snapped_. How dare he? That was the best friend Mac had ever known in the world. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. A gentle soul with a laugh that just made you happier to hear it. How could that doctor not see that Mac needed Rudy? He _needed_ him to tell him when he was being an asshole, when he needed to take a breath and calm down, to remind him to write home to his folks. A world without Rudy wasn’t a world he wanted to be in.

That-that- _surgeon_ just assumed there was nothing he could do and moved on. Like Rudy meant nothing. Like he wasn’t worth saving or fighting for. His best friend was lying cold and _dead_ on the floor. And that doctor had killed him.

It was in that moment that Mac decided. The minute he asked the doctor his name, right before he tried to take a swing at the guy. Mac decided that he was going to make him pay.

The enraged soldier took a shaky breath and cracked his knuckles. Standing in the shadows, watching the post-op doors, Sergeant Harry Mackenzie bided his time. Waiting. Watching. Because eventually that skinny doctor would walk out of surgery. And Mac had two fists with his name on them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 in the works! Please leave a comment or kudos so I can gauge interest!!


	3. He Attacked at Midnight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grabbing a fistful of Hawkeye’s hair, the soldier jerked his head up, producing a muffled cry from the doctor. One pain-shrouded blue eye met menacing brown ones.
> 
> “My name is Harry Mackenzie. And you killed my best friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is! The whump has arrived. Muahahaha. Buckle up readers, this is gunna be a bumpy ride...Enjoy (:
> 
> *Warnings: Some language and depictions of violence.

Colonel Potter, B. J., and Hawkeye stumbled through the OR door and out into the warm night. Thankfully, surgery hadn’t been exorbitantly long or excruciating. But the heat was still unbearable.

“I’m beat," B.J. griped, massaging some feeling back into his hands.

"I passed beat a few hours ago. What comes after beat, Beej?"

"Yam, usually. Or parsnip, if you prefer. Rutabaga if you're _really_ feeling it..."

Hawkeye chucked his towel at B.J.'s head with a laugh. The San Franciscan took the offending article straight to the face, spluttering in protest, before immediately throwing it back towards Hawkeye. A tug-of-war ensured, the two surgeons guffawing and whooping in merriment.

With a roll of his eyes, Colonel Potter cleared his throat and nodded towards the mess tent.

“You boys up for a cup o’ joe?”

Hawkeye let go of the towel, sending B.J. stumbling back, off-balance but victorious. He stifled a yawn behind his hand and shook his head.

“Not me, Colonel. I’m going to go give the inside of my eyelids a thorough inspection. Wake me up next week. Or next month.”

Throwing his arms up in a long stretch, B.J. huffed out a laugh, swinging the towel over his shoulder.

“I might be a dead man walking, but I’ll join you, Colonel.”

Giving a little wave, the two surgeons headed off towards their late-night beverage, chatting amicably. As for Hawkeye, he meandered slowly towards the Swamp, enjoying the jolt of fresh air and the near promise of sleep. Only a little bit further and he’d be rewarded with a stinging, wonderful night cap...

Hawkeye rounded the corner of the building, content thoughts of his bed and the still swirling around his mind. The doctor had just enough time for a fleeting thought about how dark it was with the exterior post-op light out, before he sensed he wasn’t alone.

The hair on the back of Hawkeye’s neck stood up as his eyes scoured the darkness around him. A crunch of rocks beneath a boot sounded from his right, and Hawkeye turned. He wasn’t sure why, but fear tightened in his chest. Maybe he was just overreacting, the lingering thought of that sergeant still in the corner of his mind. No reason to be scared, none at all.

“Hell-?”

Before he could finish, a fist connected with his jaw and sent him reeling backwards. Pain bloomed hot and fierce from where the mystery knuckles met his flesh, and Hawkeye knew it would bruise. He brought a tentative hand up to his face as he searched the darkness around him for his assailant. The only thing peering out from the black was the dull light from the end of a lit cigarette.

“Hey, what-”

Another fist, this time jamming into his stomach. Hawkeye felt the wind go out of him as he doubled over. _What the actual fuck...?_

Confusion flooded his mind. As he struggled to take in a breath, Hawkeye tried to sort out what in god’s name was _going on_. This didn’t seem like a drunken soldier looking to brawl; Hawkeye hadn’t caught a whiff of alcohol or anything. And he didn’t think he owed anyone money, at least not enough for them to do this. This all seemed a bit much for a practical joke—there was a fury behind the punches, an intensity and ire that exuded with every fist that connected with his body. A chilling thought caught Hawkeye off guard. _This was planned. This was personal._

Suddenly, he remembered the soldier with steely dark brown eyes. A looming figure, uniform streaked with blood and grime. A grip that was too tight, an expression that turned Hawkeye’s blood cold. _It wasn’t Korea that killed him, it was you._

_Oh, God…_

He felt the whoosh of air before the sickening impact of a knee to his face.

_Snap._

Blinding pain engulfed his senses as he felt blood rush from his _definitely_ broken nose. The hand he brought up to try and stem the flow came away awash in liquid that was redder than his robe. He could feel the sticky drip of it coating his lips and snaking down his face and neck. Tears sprang to his eyes, turning everything blurry and watery. With odd fascination, he watched as large, red droplets dripped from his chin, splashing lazily onto the dirt beneath him. All at once, Hawkeye grasped this was _his_ blood that was oozing down his face and splattering onto the ground. The realization turned his stomach. He could operate on kids all day, their blood staining his boots and clothes and never seeming to wash out. But his own blood? He never could handle the sight; he much preferred it remain inside his body.

The coppery taste invaded his mouth, and he gagged and spluttered in disgust. His whole face felt like it was on fire and his head was pounding, like he’d taken one too many rides around the still. _That_ _would be much more preferable than this_ …

There was a ringing in his ears that muted the outside world, blocking out all other sound. His vision swam as he blinked sluggishly and tried to get his bearings. Hawkeye swayed on his feet, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other flailing out in a feeble attempt to find his attacker.

“This is pay back, doc.”

_Pay back?_

The man forcefully grabbed Hawkeye’s jacket and yanked him up. In quick succession, the man landed a punch to the surgeon’s left eye and a knee to his gut. Hawkeye’s legs felt like jello as he staggered backwards, wheezing laboriously.

_It’s that soldier. The one from pre-op_. _It's gotta be..._

At the realization, fear once again tightened in his chest. Hawkeye tried to blink away the darkness that tinged the edge of his vision, his mind racing. He needed a plan, and he needed one _now._ Steeling himself, Hawkeye straightened as best as he could, squaring his shoulders and bringing his arms up feebly to defend himself.

_Someone’s bound to come by. Someone will hear. You’ve just gotta last a little bit longer._

With one eye already swelling shut and blood coating the lower half of his face, Hawkeye was sure he painted a wonderful picture. Not wanting to disappoint, he threw on his best shit-eating grin.

“Pay back? I can do this all day.”

Maybe provoking him hadn’t been his _best_ plan. Well, no one knows how to piss someone off quite like Benjamin Franklin Hawkeye Pierce.

Out of the darkness, he saw the punch coming but couldn’t move fast enough. The man’s fist slammed into his temple, sending him sprawling forcibly to the dirt. Hawkeye barely had enough time to recover before he felt the unforgiving bite of army boots strike his body.

**“You’re going-”**

A well-aimed, brutal kick to the ribs. Hawkeye yelped in pain, trying his best to curl in on himself. The soldier chuckled menacingly from somewhere above him, sending chills down his spine. This might be one scrape he wouldn’t just walk away from…

**“To feel-”**

A thick army boot stomping ruthlessly on his shoulder. There was a sickening pop that had Hawkeye biting his tongue to keep from screaming. The taste of blood was overpowering.

**“Exactly-”**

Agony blossomed as a kick landed squarely on his chest. Along with some boot-shaped bruises, Hawkeye was sure the man had broken one, if not two, ribs. It’d be a miracle if he didn’t break them all.

**“How-”**

Hawkeye instinctively brought his knees to his chest, covering his head and neck with his arms as best as he could. He didn’t know where the next blow would land, but he knew it was going to hurt. His one good eye searched the night wildly for his attacker, but it was no use—his vision was too blurry and warped. The only thing he could sense with any real certainty was the man’s anger; it was palpable, intense.

A boot connected brutally with his face, eliciting a stifled cry from the injured doctor.

**“I-”**

Kick after kick after kick landed on his arms, his legs, his back. Each one intensifying in a blur of agony. Hawkeye’d never felt pain like this; it was all-consuming, drowning him, overwhelming his senses. With each hit, a choked whimper escaped his lips.

_Just a little bit longer. Just a little bit…_

**“Feel!”**

Another boot to the chest, finding the exact place where his ribs were already broken, and Hawkeye finally screamed. Someone had to have heard that, someone had to be on their way. Hawkeye wasn’t sure how much more he could take. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t bruised, aching, and/or bleeding. It could have been 30 seconds or 30 minutes, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was the coppery taste of blood, the shooting pain that came from every inch of his body, the dizzy confusion that had him seeing double.

There was no end in sight.

Grabbing a fistful of Hawkeye’s hair, the soldier jerked his head up, producing a muffled cry from the doctor. One pain-shrouded blue eye met menacing brown ones.

“My name is Harry Mackenzie. And you killed my best friend.”

Hawkeye barely registered the man’s words before strong hands slammed his head unceremoniously into the ground. His vision began to grey and blur around the edges, unconsciousness tantalizing close. For a brief moment, Hawkeye was afraid the man might actually kill him.

_Just…a little…bit…longer…_

A thick soled boot to the back. Swift kicks to his exposed shins and knees. A stomp to his already aching shoulder. A smashing blow to his head.

Maybe he was hallucinating, but he could have sworn he heard shouting and the sound of boots running towards him. They seemed so far away, though. Like something out of a dream. It couldn't be real. His current existence was only pain, suffocating him, flooding his senses.

_He’s going to kill me._

The thought should have terrified Hawkeye more. But in that moment, he could only focus on one thing. One person, to be exact. His name whispered through Hawkeye’s mind as a silent plea, a quiet prayer.

_B.J._

_B.J., help me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew. I can't believe I did that all to Hawkeye lol. Couldn't help it, folks. I also couldn't help the Captain America quote...I'm a huge nerd (:
> 
> Next chapter coming soon (ish)! Again, comments/kudos are always appreciated. Over and out M*A*S*H fans!


	4. Save Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No. Oh, God no…
> 
> Someone was lying in the dirt, partially obscured by a nurse who had bent down to help. B.J. felt sick as he recognized the beat up, untied boots.
> 
> It can’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I *finally* pushed through some serious writers block to finish this chapter. Thank you to those of you who have stuck with this story and are still reading! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> *Warnings: Some language.

B.J. swirled the dregs of his coffee around the cup, vaguely listening to the story Colonel Potter was telling him. He stifled a yawn, blinking the sleepiness from his eyes. _12:30 am_ flashed up at him accusingly from his wristwatch, but he knew he couldn’t go to sleep. His mind was running a mile a minute and his stomach was in knots. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t shake the feeling something was wrong. He couldn’t place it. His legs bounced listlessly beneath the table as he drained the last of the foul, watery mess that passed for the camp’s coffee.

“And then, this is the good part son, Mrs. Potter dropped the cherry pie right on-”

“Sirs! Sirs! Come quick!”

The two surgeons jumped at Klinger’s shout. Colonel Potter looked altogether miffed at the interruption, unhappy with the abrupt stop to his story. Already a bundle of nerves, the cry startled B.J. into sending his mug scattering across the table. A chill raced down the Californian’s spine. Klinger only reserved that frantic tone for casualties or upon discovering a run in his stockings. Something was very wrong.

Before Potter or B.J. could ask him what was going on, the well-dressed corporal was on his way back out of the mess tent, door swinging loudly back into place behind him. The doctors exchanged thinly veiled looks of concern. The odd feeling in B.J.’s gut was all of a sudden making sense. For some reason, he just _knew_ it had to do with Hawkeye. That incorrigible man had a knack for getting into the worst sort of situations. And if Klinger was sprinting in his nicest pumps and summer dress, it could mean nothing but trouble.

Coffee all but forgotten, the two surgeons sprang up from the mess table and hurried to catch up. Klinger’s shouts seemed to have woken up a few others, as a small group of people began to cluster near the back of post-op. Colonel Potter threw B.J. an indecipherable look as they rushed towards the gathering. The younger surgeon attempted to school his features, trying not to let the worry that tightened his throat and gripped his heart like a vice show on his face. He didn’t need to go on assuming anything or thinking the worst. For all he knew, Hawkeye was sound asleep in the Swamp…

The sight that greeted the pair stopped them cold.

“Let. Me. Go!”

Three or four flashlights illuminated the scene. In the weak beams of light, B.J. saw that a soldier, who easily had an inch or two on him, was being restrained by Igor and Goldman. Klinger had his rifle raised level with the man’s chest. He appeared wild and manic; his hooded eyes unhinged. Fighting the corpsmen tooth and nail, he tried desperately to free himself from their grip.

The man’s uniform looked tousled and disheveled, splattered with what B.J. assumed were smears of dirt. Upon closer inspection in the weak light, B.J. realized that the dark splotches he had first mistaken for mud on the jacket were in fact…blood.

If it were possible, his stomach knotted even further, his heart in his throat. Time seemed to slow down as his blue eyes followed the crazed soldier’s gaze to the ground.

_No._

_Oh, God no…_

Someone was lying in the dirt, partially obscured by a nurse who had bent down to help. B.J. felt sick as he recognized the beat up, untied boots.

_It can’t be._

“Jumpin’ junipers! What the blazes is going on here?” Colonel Potter yelled gruffly. The tone was one not often heard by the members of the 4077th. It took quite a lot to get Potter’s shorts in a twist; but when it did happen, God help whoever was on the warpath.

The handful of nurses and corpsmen that made up the gawking gaggle shook their heads. No one knew what happened. All of them were glancing between the unfamiliar soldier and the person lying in a heap on the ground, hands covering their mouths in shock and fear shining in their eyes.

“Let me go! I’m not finished! Let. Go!”

The restrained sergeant tugged at the tight grips around his arms, shooting a murderous look at Klinger. Potter tried not to focus on the fact that he recognized the slumped form of the man lying in the dirt. He had to keep a cool head and not jump to conclusions. Fixing the soldier with a threatening look, he sidled up to Klinger, lips pursed and hands clasped behind his back.

“No one knows exactly what happened, sir. When I ran up, Igor and Goldman were pulling this guy,” Klinger tapped the tip of his rifle into the soldier’s chest, “off the doc over there.”

Potter took a shaky breath, his suspicions confirmed. His sharp eye took in the blood spatter on the soldier’s jacket and the sinister look on his face. He’d been in the army long enough to have pieced together an idea of what happened, and it made him sick. 

“Keep him restrained, Klinger. I’m going to want to talk to him. And wake up Radar, I need him to phone the MPs,” Potter ordered.

“Aye, aye sir!”

Klinger threw up a mock salute. He motioned for Igor and Goldman to head out, and, readjusting the straps on his dress, the group set off towards the colonel’s office. The soldier was still fighting, shouting out obscenities and blind threats. His loud assertion that he’d killed the man on the ground was met with blanched looks and hushed whispers of disbelief.

Potter turned back towards the group, steeling himself for the unpleasant scene he knew was waiting. The shock and despair he saw on B.J.’s face confirmed his worst fears. The surgeon stood rooted to the spot, eyes never leaving the still form of the man on the ground…

_It just can’t be._

B.J. barely registered the conversation happening around him. His eyes were glued to those un-shined, shabby boots. He willed himself to move, shuffling his feet closer and closer to the huddled figure. He tried to swallow the emotion that was bubbling up, but his throat was suddenly too dry. His body felt numb as he reached the nurse and finally got a good look at the person lying on the ground.

 _Son of a bitch_.

That familiar unkempt hair. That permanent five o’clock shadow. That shabby, red robe.

How did he know? How did he know the minute he ran up that it was going to be Hawkeye lying here?

B.J. dropped to his knees. He wasn’t entirely certain he was breathing.

“Jesus, Hawk…”

Hawkeye was sprawled on his left side, his knees tucked up towards his chest. His uniform was torn, blood and dirt streaking across the army green. His face… _god his face_. It was a certifiable mess; nose broken, one eye swollen shut, purplish bruises littering his right cheek and jaw. And the blood…it stood out gruesomely from Hawkeye’s pale skin. B.J. didn’t think he wanted to see the rest of the damage that he knew was hidden beneath his friend’s uniform. Even though his eyes registered that it was his bunkmate, the incomparable prankster and entertainer extraordinaire, B.J. just couldn’t wrap his brain around it.

It couldn’t be him, lying there broken…bruised…bleeding. There was no way this unconscious, injured man was Hawkeye Pierce. _It couldn’t be. There was no way._ Alas, as B.J.’s hands found purchase in Hawkeye’s jacket, feeling the course material beneath his fingertips, he knew this was terrifyingly real. 

“He’s out cold, doctor. I was going to try and wake him up, but I think maybe we should move him inside first.”

B.J. realized that Nurse Kelly was talking to him, and he nodded absentmindedly. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Time seemed to slow down and his vision narrowed until all he could see was his best friend, lying lifeless and beaten in the dirt. Kelly quietly got to her feet, moving out of his way as he shifted closer.

Indecision stalled his movements, his hands skimming across Hawkeye’s still form, but never settling. He was afraid to touch him; he didn’t want to hurt him any worse. Delicately, B.J. rested one hand on the back of Hawkeye’s head, threading his fingers through the disheveled hair, as the other hand searched his neck desperately for a pulse. His fingers trembled as they slipped in the blood and dirt, stumbling to find the steady _thump thump_ of a heartbeat.

B.J. held his breath. Straining. Searching. Hoping.

_Thump…thump…thump…_

It was weak, and thready. But it was there.

Tears in his eyes, B.J. swallowed the lump of emotion in his throat. _He’s alive_.

Feeling a hand on his shoulder, he glanced up and caught Colonel Potter’s eye. The older surgeon looked troubled, caught somewhere between sadness and unbridled rage. B.J. was in a similar boat himself.

Potter was white as a sheet, and the hand he placed on B.J.’s shoulder was trembling. Seeing Hawkeye like this was…jarring. Sickening. B.J. shook his head numbly, not knowing what to say. There were no words for something like this. 

“Think you can move him, son? I’ll get the rest of this circus broken up and see if I can’t find out what in mule fritters happened here.”

B.J. nodded weakly. Tearing his eyes away from Potter, he searched Hawkeye’s face for any sign of life. The surgeon's chest rose and fell weakly but he was still unconscious. B.J. swore silently at the task in front of him, knowing any slight movement would jostle his friend’s injuries. Colonel Potter was right though; they needed to move Hawkeye away from prying eyes and somewhere where he could properly examine him.

"What happened?"

B.J. glanced up at the voice. Father Mulcahy, tying his robe tighter, was walking quickly towards the group. 

"Oh. My word."

The priest's face was ashen as he signed a small cross in front of his chest. He hadn't been sure what he was expecting to find here in the wee hours of the morning, but this certainly hadn't been it. Intoning a quiet prayer, the young officer bent down next to B.J.

“Here, let me help.”

Readjusting his glasses, he positioned himself by Hawkeye’s head. Kelly also moved in to help, squatting down near Hawkeye’s feet. As they reached out, hands almost touching Hawkeye, a swell of anger knifed through B.J. like a lightning bolt.

“Don’t touch him! Nobody touch him!”

Kelly and Father Mulcahy jumped back, perplexed. They both shot worried and uncertain looks first at B.J. and then up to Colonel Potter. The CO, eyes never leaving the distraught surgeon, waved them off.

“Father, Kelly. Help me corral this bunch towards the mess tent, there’s plenty of coffee. I've got some things to take care of, and then I'll be along. There's a rather amusing story about the missus I never got to finish telling. B.J. can handle this. If he needs help, I’m sure he’ll ask.”

B.J. heard the underlying message in the colonel's words: _We'll be here when you need us._ He felt guilty for yelling at Kelly and Father Mulcahy, they only wanted to help. His reaction had been instinctual, territorial. He couldn't explain why, he just needed to do this himself...he had to fix this himself.

Wiggling one arm under Hawkeye’s knees and the other beneath the base of his neck, B.J. tried to lift as gently as possible. He took his movements slowly, aware that he was probably jostling some unseen injuries. Gripping him firmly against his chest, B.J. straightened up. The groan of pain that escaped Hawkeye’s lips tightened the Californian’s throat with emotion and brought unshed tears to his blue eyes. He moved carefully but quickly towards post-op. 

_Why didn’t I go with him to the Swamp? If I'd passed on that cup of coffee, this would have never happened. I could have helped. I could have protected him._

A tear snaked down his cheek and landed on Hawkeye’s shirt. The droplet soaked slowly into the olive drab shirt…the same shirt that was ruined with blood and grime. Looking down at the injured face of his best friend, B.J. knew he’d never forgive himself. 

_Oh God, Hawk. Please, please wake up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is already in the works, so stay tuned! As always, any feedback, suggestions, or other comments are appreciated! (:


	5. The Pain Grows Stronger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The unconscious surgeon’s eyes started to flutter, a pained groan escaping his lips. B.J. silently prayed to himself over and over again, repeating it like a mantra: Please wake up, please be okay. Please wake up, please be okay…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this new chapter took so long, between work and grad school I haven't had any time to write! I was also just like really not inspired this chapter. I procrastinated and put it off, choosing to binge watch M*A*S*H instead of writing (sorry not sorry). This was a struggle and I'm still not wholly satisfied with how it turned out. A rewrite may be in my future...but for now it is complete! Thank you for those that have stuck with the story. Without further ado, here we go!

Post-op was deathly silent.

There were only a few soldiers recuperating, leaving the room quite empty. The clock on the wall ticked almost too loudly in the stillness. Walking as swiftly as he could, B.J. made a beeline for the operating room, knowing it was probably the one place where he could check out the extent of Hawkeye’s injuries without being disturbed. He was thankful for the late hour and the sparse occupancy of post-op; it ensured there weren’t too many prying eyes. While he knew the man in his arms was always begging for attention, something told him he wouldn’t be a fan of anyone seeing him in this condition.

_His condition. Good God._

Thinking about it made B.J. angrier than he could ever remember being.

_Why had Hawkeye been beaten?_

_Who was that soldier?_

_Why?_

_Why…?_

B.J. wanted to tear that soldier limb from limb for doing this to Hawkeye. He was not a man easily swayed to violence, but seeing his best friend lying on the ground, covered in blood and barely breathing…something just snapped. He didn’t really feel in control of himself or his emotions, and that thought scared him. B.J. forced himself to take a shaky breath. There’d be a time for anger, maybe even for action. Right now, though, he had to focus on his best friend, who was lying limp and breathing shallowly in his arms.

B.J. crossed the OR quickly as he felt Hawkeye begin to stir. As gently as he could, he placed his friend down on an open table in the corner of the room. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince himself to fully let go of him. B.J. kept his hand lightly resting on Hawkeye’s arm, needing, _craving_ , the contact.

The unconscious surgeon’s eyes started to flutter, a pained groan escaping his lips. B.J. silently prayed to himself over and over again, repeating it like a mantra: _Please wake up, please be okay. Please wake up, please be okay_ …

* * *

Hawkeye blinked his one unswollen eye sluggishly. Awareness was slowly coming back to him. The room around him was dim and the surface he was laying on felt cool against his skin. Before he could notice anything else, pain overwhelmed his senses, crashing into his consciousness from every angle. He gasped, feeling its hot tendrils pulsating from his ribs, shoulder, face…seemingly from every inch of him. But amidst the pain there was something else too, something nagging the corner of his mind that set off warning bells in his head.

Dread, with its icy, unforgiving grip, ensnared him. All at once he realized why he felt paralyzed with fear: _there was someone standing over him_.

His heart leapt up into his throat as he struggled to breathe. Adrenaline surged through his veins. One pain-shrouded cerulean eye met the concerned blue ones looking down at him. There was a hand on his arm, _was it holding him down_? Hawkeye instinctively jerked away from the contact, self-preservation overriding every coherent, sane thought in his brain. He shot up into a seated position and pushed himself as far away from the figure as he could get. Hitting the wall with his back, he tried to breathe through the agony his movements had created. Hawkeye brought his knees to his chest, ignoring the stabbing in his ribs, and fixed the dimly lit figure with a wary look.

“ _Get away_! Please… _please_ don’t touch me. Don’t touch me...”

B.J. flinched at the panicked sound of Hawkeye’s voice, an edge of fear lacing every word. He drew back his hand, hating the fact that he had caused this reaction. Logically, B.J. knew it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the ordeal Hawkeye had been through. But the way his friend had flinched away from him…it clawed at his heart, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

This was not the Hawkeye Pierce he was used to. Hawkeye was…a _victim…_ injured…beaten to a pulp by a stranger. The distressed man hyperventilating in the corner was not one he recognized. And he felt certain that Hawkeye didn’t even recognize _him_.

“Hawk.”

He tried to keep his voice quiet and soothing. Doing his best not to startle him, B.J. reached up towards the light above his head. He flicked the switch, bathing their private corner of the OR in a soft glow. Hawkeye jerked his head back slightly, blinking and trying to adjust to the brightness. A small hint of recognition crossed his face as he took in the familiarity of the OR.

B.J. waited.

Hawkeye’s gaze jumped wildly amidst the room around them; searching, anxious. Finally, he locked eyes with B.J.

“Hawk...”

“It’s me.”

B.J. inched forward cautiously, and placed a tentative hand on Hawkeye’s knee. Thankfully this time his friend didn’t move away.

“It’s just me, Hawk. _It’s only me_.”

After a few moments, Hawkeye seemed to recognize that it was B.J. standing in front of him, and most importantly, that the two of them were alone. The injured man’s breathing began to slow and he slumped back against the wall, energy spent. The movement elicited a hiss of pain; Hawkeye was fully conscious now, but that also made him fully aware of the fact that everything _hurt_.

“Alright Hawk, I need to take a look at you, okay?”

Hawkeye gave a small nod, gritting his teeth against a wave of pain. He maneuvered himself out of the corner, straightening his legs out slowly and pivoting towards the edge of the table until they dangled over the side. Each movement was slow and controlled, belaying the pain Hawkeye was unsuccessfully trying to hide. The effort seemed to sap all his friend’s energy as B.J. watched with thinly veiled concern.

Now with proper lighting, Hawkeye was barely recognizable. B.J. let his eyes take in everything: the torn and ruined uniform, the drying blood on his friend’s face, the swollen nose and eye, the purplish bruises peeking beneath the rips in his shirt, the way he was cradling his left arm to his chest. _He looked awful…_

The Californian swore quietly under his breath, mind racing through possible prognoses.

“We’ll take this slow, okay? I’ll talk to you the whole time and walk you through everything I’m doing.”

Hawkeye didn’t respond, just threw him an apprehensive look. B.J. saw him tracking every one of his movements, the remnants of fear still lingering in his expression.

“Does this hurt?”

B.J. softly prodded Hawkeye’s cheek bones and jaw. The injured man winced, but didn’t say anything, throwing up his right shoulder in a shrug.

“Okay...well, your nose is definitely broken.” Hawkeye hissed as B.J. poked the offending feature. “Clean break, though, so you’ll be back on your feet and schmoosing a nurse in no time.”

B.J. ignored the twinge of worry in his gut at his friend’s continued silence. He pressed on with his exam, checking around Hawkeye’s swollen eye. Possible hairline fracture, with the extent of the bruising B.J. saw beneath the dried blood. Clearing his throat, B.J. caught Hawk’s eye. His expression was glazed, vacant.

“I think you may have a head injury, too. Sensitivity to light? Headache? Dizziness? Nausea?”

Hawkeye nodded briefly to the first few questions, but shook his head at the last. _At least this was better than no answer at all._ Keeping a watchful eye on his friend, B.J. resumed his ministrations. Besides the broken nose and swollen eye, Hawkeye only had one other cut the side of his head, which accounted for the blood that matted in his hair and stained the collar of his shirt. All things considered, it was better than B.J. had feared.

“No injuries to the neck or right shoulder. Here, let me help you out of your jacket so I can see a little better…”

Placing a hand on Hawkeye’s left shoulder, he felt the man tense and suck in an unsteady breath. Immediately, B.J. could tell the joint was dislocated, hopefully nothing worse. Hawkeye had his eye squeezed shut and was letting out small breaths between clenched teeth. Shaking his head, he pushed B.J.’s hand off his jacket and held his left arm protectively against his chest.

B.J. took a breath, deciding how best to proceed. Hawkeye was more than a little jumpy about taking off his jacket, and the awkward feel of his friend’s shoulder concerned him.

“Alright Hawk, we can leave the jacket on. No sweat. But…I think your shoulder is dislocated. I’m going to need to reset it. You okay with that? You ready?”

Hawkeye shot B.J. a pained look, but gave him a faint nod. Gently, B.J. encircled his hand around Hawkeye’s wrist. Pulling the arm straight, he paused for only a moment before he guided the bone into the correct spot and pushed it back into the socket.

A tortured sound came from the injured man and B.J. winced in sympathy.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry Hawk…”

Switching his grip, he placed one hand on the injured shoulder and one on the upper arm. B.J. glanced behind him to the other side of the OR, eyes sweeping across the supply stations. Finding what he was looking for, he steered Hawkeye’s right hand to the stabilizing position he’d previously been holding.

“I need to grab something to wrap that arm and clean you up with. I’ll be back in just a second, okay?”

Hawkeye couldn’t mask the wave of fear that crossed his face at B.J.’s words. His expression seemed pleading, asking him not to go, not to leave him alone. B.J. tried to give him a reassuringly smile as he patted Hawkeye’s knee and stepped away from the table.

B.J. hurried towards the supplies. There was an urgency to his movements, spurred on by his friend’s fearful and haunted look, as he grabbed alcohol, water, towels, and linen for a sling. He didn’t want to leave Hawkeye for longer than he had to.

At his reappearance, Hawkeye visibly relaxed, letting out a small breath he seemed to have been holding in. B.J. set his armful of supplies down before returning his hand to Hawkeye’s knee. He gave it a quick squeeze and then got to work.

Silence stretched between them as B.J. cleaned and dressed Hawkeye’s wounds, setting the broken nose, binding the dislocated shoulder, and wiping away most of the blood. Throughout it all, Hawkeye didn’t say a single word. He stared blankly over B.J.’s shoulder, painstakingly avoiding eye contact.

A silent Hawkeye was a huge red flag. It was incredibly odd and unnerving. Ever since his outburst right when he woke up, the only thing that had come out of the injured man’s mouth had been some groans and gasps of pain. B.J. tried not to let that worry him as he finished tying the ends of the makeshift splint.

“Now that that’s taken care of, let’s finish this up, shall we? You did only pay for the hour, I’ll have to charge you a hefty fee for any minute over…”

Silence.

B.J. frowned at the vacant expression on his friend’s face. He knew it wasn’t a _great_ joke, it sounded forced to his own ears. But there had been no reaction from Hawkeye. The injured man seemed lost in his own thoughts.

“You okay to keep going?”

Not expecting a reply, and not getting one, B.J. continued the exam.

“I’m going to check your ribs, alright?”

B.J. had barely begun pressing on Hawkeye’s ribcage when the older man let out a strangled groan. What little color he’d had in his face had all but disappeared; his eyes were shut tight and his lips were pursed.

“Hawk? _Hawk_? You okay?” Concern tinged B.J.’s words. Hawkeye gave a slight shake of his head, breathing harshly. His right hand reached out and clasped onto B.J.’s forearm in a forceful grip.

“Definitely some broken ribs there, buddy. I won’t know for sure how many until we get some x-rays done-”

Hawkeye shook his head again, harder this time. He opened his eye and fixed B.J. with a stubborn stare.

“Hawk, come on. I haven’t even gotten halfway through examining you-”

But the look Hawkeye gave him stopped the words in his throat. That stormy blue eye was blown wide with a mixture of fear and exhaustion. The hand that was holding onto B.J.’s arm was griping tighter and tighter; he could feel the tremors that coursed through Hawkeye’s thin frame. _This had been a lot, maybe too much for him._ The doctor part of B.J.’s brain screamed that he should finish the exam. But he knew in that moment that as worried as he was about Hawkeye, his friend had been through more than enough tonight.

“Alright. Let’s compromise, shall we? The only way you’re getting out of the rest of this exam is if you _promise_ that first thing tomorrow morning, you’re getting x-rays done of that shoulder and those ribs.”

Hawkeye sighed and shrugged his good shoulder. He gave B.J.’s arm a grateful squeeze. Maneuvering to his side so he could help him up, B.J. readied himself for the pain-filled (on Hawkeye’s part) trek ahead of them.

“Let’s get you to the Swamp, Hawk.”

* * *

B.J. closed the Swamp door as quietly as he could behind him, grateful that Radar had stopped by to sit with Hawkeye. He didn’t want him to wake up alone.

The dark-haired surgeon hadn’t slept a wink all night. B.J. was certain it wasn’t just the pain from his injuries keeping him up, either. Every time someone walked past the tent, B.J. could see Hawkeye tensely tracking their movements from his cot. He wouldn’t relax until they’d moved out of his line of sight. B.J. would’ve had to wake him up every few hours to make sure his head injury wasn’t too severe anyways, but he never got the chance to.

The two surgeons both lay awake through the wee hours of the morning, lost in their own thoughts.

Every time Hawkeye tried to give in to the coaxing lull of unconsciousness, flashes of that man’s face would spring to his mind. Terror wound painfully around his heart and tightened in his throat. Sleep wouldn’t claim him. And he wasn’t sure he really wanted to fall asleep; the last thing he needed was for that soldier to plague his dreams.

As for B.J., his thoughts were solely occupied with anger. Though he couldn’t see them in the darkness of the Swamp, the memories of Hawkeye’s bruises haunted him. The way he’d found him curled up, unconscious in the dirt, face covered in blood… For a brief moment, B.J. had thought his best friend was dead. He kept playing those gory scenes over and over in his mind, while his gaze stayed rooted to the bed across from his. B.J.’s eyes, burning with overpowering emotion, never left Hawkeye’s still form.

It was well after the sun had risen before Hawkeye finally nodded off, too exhausted to stay awake. In the morning light, B.J. thought he looked even worse than the night before. _It’d be quite a while before he looked like his old self, probably even longer for him to act like his old self_.

B.J. shook his head at his musings. The last 12 hours had been a whirlwind that had left him emotionally and physically drained. _But…what now?_ Picking up the pieces, putting Hawkeye back together again…that was going to take some time. _How was he going to heal, how was he going to cope? Would he be okay? If his body mended, would his mind? Had the attack left some scars that would never heal, invisible but agonizing?_

His thoughts scared him more than he cared to admit.

B.J. gave Radar a little wave and cast one last lingering look at Hawkeye. Even in sleep, he didn’t look relaxed.

The Californian set his jaw, and, spinning on his heel, stalked purposefully towards Colonel Potter’s office. He could feel his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Anger burned his throat like acid, washing down to sit roiling in his stomach.

For the second time that night, B.J. realized that he couldn’t recall ever feeling this enraged. The images of Hawkeye’s bloody and bruised face were there every time he shut his eyes. He had half a mind to beat the shit out of that soldier, whoever he was. An eye for an eye. He’d wager that Father Mulcahy might just back him up on that one.

But a lone, nagging thought lingered on the edges of his mind. _Why had that soldier done it?_

Hoping for some answers, revenge burning in his veins, B.J. pushed open the swinging door to Potter’s office.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not my finest work but I hope you all enjoyed! Next chapter hopefully coming soon, thanks for reading. As always, comments are greatly appreciated (:


	6. My Words, Like Silent Raindrops Fell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The look on that soldier’s face will haunt me until the day I die.”
> 
> The father nodded in silent agreement. Those rage-filled eyes, that hungry, dangerous look…it was an image they’d all be hard pressed to forget. A faceless enemy lurking in the shadows was a far cry from one who hid in the same uniform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! This chapter was supposed to be all about B.J. getting some well-deserved revenge...spoiler alert: that is NOT what happened. I got very caught up in writing about Colonel Potter, Father Mulcahy, and Radar...sorry ya'll! Thanks for those of you who have stuck with me on this story. So, here we go and I hope you like it!

Sherman Potter rubbed the sleep stubbornly from his eyes. He’d been in his fair share of wars, but one thing he never got used to was feeling so _goddamn tired_. The army seemed to think sleep was an unnecessary resource, some precious commodity only afforded to a select few. Potter had been tired for as long as he could remember, and it compounded with each war, each battle, each fight. But lately it had taken on a new form. His body had reached a point where it just felt like calling it quits. This war was wearing on him. And it definitely made him feel as if he was getting much too old for this sort of thing.

He’d been quite busy since ushering that small group into the mess tent a few hours previously. Nurses and soldiers alike had talked quietly amongst themselves, sipping absentmindedly on cups of coffee, all processing what they’d witnessed in different ways. The mood in the mess tent had been, in a word, grim. Potter had gone around to each person, making sure everyone was alright. He was the commanding officer after all and it was his job to look out for every person in this unit. Father Mulcahy had busied himself with helping as well, offering a consoling pat on the back here, and a word of comfort there. After a few hours, the group began to disperse, ones and twos retiring due to the late hour. Colonel Potter claimed a vacant table in the corner after the last person left. He placed his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands, mind racing.

The kids in this outfit were a lot stronger than sometimes he gave them credit for. They were resilient, forced into the worst of circumstances, and yet they still smiled and laughed and found joy in things. These displaced young men and women were under his command, and he had to protect them. Well, almost all of them…there had been one surgeon, one young officer that he hadn’t been able to protect…

Father Mulcahy broke the career officer out of his reverie. The young man plopped down across from him, weariness exuding from his every movement. He gave the colonel a tired look across the table.

“Colonel, I don’t mean to offend you, but you look particularly exhausted.”

Potter chuckled, raising his head and fixing the father with an amused look.

“What’s passed exhausted, Father? Whatever that is, I’m there.”

The two lapsed into comfortable silence, both lost in their own thoughts. The events of the last few hours weighed heavy on their minds. Father Mulcahy cleared his throat and readjusted his glasses.

“How do you-umm-think Hawkeye is doing?”

Potter fixed the priest with an indiscernible look.

“To tell you the truth Padre, he didn’t…he wasn’t…he looked in pretty bad shape.”

Father Mulcahy paled. He signed a quick cross and muttered a quiet prayer.

“I’ve seen a lot of things in this man’s army. Something I will never understand is fighting your own side. And that kind of rage…”

The older man broke off, shaking his head. There were some things, things too difficult to explain. Ones that defied any logic, rhyme, or reason. Colonel Potter knew the actions of that soldier fell firmly in this category. He cast an uncertain look towards the somber priest, and muttered his quiet confession.

“The look on that soldier’s face will haunt me until the day I die.”

The father nodded in silent agreement. Those rage-filled eyes, that hungry, dangerous look…it was an image they’d all be hard pressed to forget. A faceless enemy lurking in the shadows was a far cry from one who hid in the same uniform.

“Well, Colonel, I think it’s about time we got some rest,” Father Mulcahy said, getting to his feet. He went to leave, but before he did, he placed a comforting hand on Potter’s shoulder.

“You’ll be in my prayers tonight.” It was no more than a whisper, but it brought a small bit of comfort to the older man. He stifled a yawn behind his hand, waving the other towards the door.

“Thanks, Padre. I appreciate that more than I can say. Now go get some shut eye, you’ve earned it.”

Potter watched as Father Mulcahy left the mess tent, door swinging closed behind him. He was overcome with a sense of déjà vu; the door shutting closed behind Klinger a few hours before seemed like a lifetime ago. Getting slowly to his feet, the surgeon truly did feel his age. He headed off towards his office, both heart and mind heavy. The tasks that awaited him were those that inspired little envy, but the one he was looking forward to least was waking up Radar.

* * *

“Radar. Son. Wake up.”

Potter shook the corporal’s shoulder tentatively, a grave sound to his voice. The young man blinked his owlish eyes blearily, reaching out blindly for his glasses hanging on the wall.

“Sir? Is that you?”

Potter gave a slight nod of his head, searching for the right thing to say.

“Son-”

“Oh, sir! Did I forget something? I did, didn’t I? I did…oh! I did! Oh sir, the morning report! I meant to finish it, but my eyes were just so tired, I was only going to lay down for a minute, sir-”

Potter threw up a hand to stop Radar’s rambling. Silence pervaded the office, neither one knowing quite how to break it. The colonel cleared his throat hesitantly; he had a serious look on his face and a solemnness in his eyes. Radar sat up all the way, fidgeting with his glasses. He held his teddy bear a little tighter.

“Something’s…happened, son.”

Radar looked at him confusedly. Potter sat heavily on the edge of the cot and placed a soothing hand on Radar’s shoulder.

“It’s Hawkeye.”

“Hawkeye? Did something happen to the sir, sir?”

“Um. Well, son. There was a-a bit of an incident after surgery…”

“An-an incident?”

“There was a soldier…and he-he and Hawkeye…”

Potter trailed off, unable to look Radar in the face. Finding the right words had never felt so difficult. The young man with the round glasses and impossibly wholesome personality looked so vulnerable, like at any moment he would shatter into a million pieces.

“He’s hurt pretty bad, son.”

The corporal’s face revealed no hint of understanding what the colonel was trying to tell him. His mouth was hanging open in a small “o”, his confused eyes blinking behind his glasses.

“But-but-but he can’t be. Excuse me, sir, but you’re wrong. I just saw him. He can’t be…he just can’t…”

“Walter.”

Using his given name stopped Radar cold. He searched Potter’s face, wishing, hoping, _praying_ it weren’t true. But the seriousness of his commanding officer’s gaze belayed the truth: what he’d told him was real. Tears sprang to his eyes and the corporal wiped furiously at them beneath him glasses. Potter reached out a hand and patted Radar’s arm.

“I need you to do something for me, son.”

Radar blinked the tears from his eyes. Sniffling once, then twice, he shifted off the cot and got to his feet, teddy bear in hand.

“What do you-what do you need, sir?”

“Get on the horn to the MPs. That soldier they brought in, tell them I want to talk to him.”

The corporal gave a small nod of affirmation before winding the radio up.

* * *

Colonel Potter finally, _finally_ retired to his office, weariness clinging heavily to his shoulders. It had been a long night, and it unfortunately was not going to be over in the near future. There were still a few hours before the hot summer sun would rise in the cerulean Korean sky, time enough for the seasoned soldier to regroup, reenergize, and refocus on the road ahead. Sleep would be an unknown companion, but this was a fact of army life Potter was accustomed to. Many a times late nights had turned into early mornings; those wee hours of the dawn spent gambling, drinking, or just plain talking, were some of the best nights of his life. This early morning would not rank among those he fondly remembered, just ones he’d never be able to forget.

Suppressing a yawn, the Colonel trudged towards his desk, his steps slow and laborious. He felt so much older that he could ever remember feeling…and he wasn’t particularly amused with how many times that thought kept jumping into his mind.

At last, some respite: his creaky army issued chair. Dropping heavily into the unforgiving wood, the colonel threw a tired gaze at the black and white photo on the corner of his desk. Damn, how he missed that woman. Her smile gave him comfort in dark times like these; a blossom of light that had carried him through ceaseless shelling and bitter cold nights, POW camps and brushes with death, reminding him that home was waiting for him if only he’d last just _one more day_.

With a weary sigh, Colonel Potter leaned back his head until it rested on the back of his chair. He listened absentmindedly to Radar’s voice floating through the door as he mulled over just what to do next. He had half a mind to seek out B.J. and Hawkeye, check in on the younger men and see how they were faring. But, in the short time he’d known him, Potter was certain Hawkeye would much rather be left alone at this juncture. The right person, the best person, was with him now.

Snippets of the one-sided conversation continued to meander their way into his mind, but Potter wasn’t really listening anymore. The day that he couldn’t remember beginning was slowly catching up to him, and although the chair was uncomfortable and his neck would have a crick in it when he woke up, the commanding officer’s eyes began to droop. His breathing evened out, sleep finally claiming him.

Poking his head in a few minutes later, Radar found Colonel Potter snoring at his desk, brows knit in concentration. The young man quietly shut off the lights, closing the door carefully behind him. He’d call the MPs back and tell them to bring that soldier over after 0630. Right now, he knew Colonel Potter needed some rest. Taking that advice for himself, the corporal got back into bed, tucking his teddy bear in and setting a mental alarm for 0500. He wouldn’t get very much sleep, but there was somewhere he needed to go.

* * *

The sky was turning a pinking grey and the first stirrings of activity were heard in the camp when Radar awoke. Checking the clock, and realizing it was just after five, the company clerk figured it was as good a time as any to start his day. He threw on a semi clean uniform, cleaned the smudges off his glasses, and hid his bear in the box beneath his bed. Stretching his arms above his head, Radar popped over to the mess tent to grab Colonel Potter a fresh cup of coffee. Well, fresh seemed to be an overstatement, but at least it was warm and caffeinated.

The dawn was in its beautiful watercolor stage when Radar walked back out of the mess tent, coffee in hand. Fingers of morning light were chasing away the black and navy remnants of the night sky. Radar liked waking up before the sun; watching it rise high and yellow in the clear blue tapestry hanging above made him feel like he was back in Iowa, if only for a brief moment. Something as innocent and pure as the sun rising brought him a little spark of joy.

But this morning, the light in the sky felt cheerless and cold, contrasting with the humidity and unpleasantness of the warm summer air. Radar found no happiness in the dawn; his mind was far away, attention focused elsewhere.

With thoughts of Hawkeye and the events from the previous night weighing heavy in his brain, he pushed open Colonel Potter’s office door. The sound caused the older man to jump awake. Groaning loudly, and body protesting from the movement, Potter reentered the land of the living much sooner than he planned, or hoped. One of his hands went up to massage his neck and he tentatively rolled out his shoulders. Sleeping upright in a chair did not get easier as time passed, and his body was screaming at him for treating it as though he were still in his twenties.

Radar handed the surgeon a mug of coffee with an empathetic smile.

“Morning, sir, sorry to wake you. I called the MPs like you asked and they said they’ll be by around 0630. Those requisition forms you mentioned yesterday morning are on the corner of your desk, and the daily, weekly, and monthly reports are all stacked next to those. We’ll need the incident report filled out in triplicate as well.” Radar handed the Colonel a piece of paper and continued. “I still need to sort yesterday’s mail, and the supply closet needs reorganizing and inventorying, but I’ll get on that right after breakfast-”

Colonel Potter held up a hand, pausing the young man’s long-winded monologue.

“Son, I’m sure all the things that need to get done today will get done, same as they did yesterday. I haven’t got my shorts in a knot about it. A lifetime in the army has taught me that paperwork can wait, but people can’t. Why don’t you run on over to the Swamp and see how Pierce is doing, hm?”

“Oh, yes sir!”

With a grateful look, the corporal turned on his heel and raced through the double doors. Potter fought the urge to follow on his heels. Instead, he checked the clock on the wall, calculating he had about an hour before the MPs would be by.

Taking a sip of coffee, the commanding officer turned his attention to the ever-present stack of paperwork on his desk. One piece of paper in particular. The incident report. Being in the army as long as he had, filling one of these out had become second nature. Potter selected a pen from his pile and leaned down over his desk. The air was already becoming uncomfortably warm now that the sun was on its way up; they were in for another scorcher.

Potter’s hand hesitated in the air, pen poised ready to write. He cast one last forlorn look at the picture of his wife before taking a deep breath.

“The sooner you start, the sooner it’s over.”

Shaking his head, Potter began writing.

* * *

“Colonel!”

The older man glanced up from his desk, surprised at the tone of voice. B.J.’s eyes were burning with unbridled rage, his hands knotted in fists.

“You look beat, son. Did you get any sleep?”

“ _I’m fine_.”

Colonel Potter eyed him appraisingly over his glasses. There were unspoken words lingering in the air between them.

“Uh huh, I see…” Potter replied, removing his glasses. He pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache that pulsed behind his eyes. This would be a very long day, but it looked like the man in front of him was going to have it much worse.

“Let’s address this elephant in the room and then we can move on, alright son? So. Want to tell me how Pierce is doing?”

B.J. raked a hand through his hair agitatedly, searching for words. He began to pace, trying desperately to quell his fried nerves.

“Hawkeye is-”

He paused, pacing one way.

“He’s-”

With a shake of his head, B.J. turned around and paced the other way.

“He isn’t-”

The surgeon stopped his pacing abruptly and fixed the Colonel with a shattered look. There really weren’t the right words for this. B.J. collapsed into the chair in front of Potter’s desk with a sigh, head in his hands. He couldn’t adequately express how it shook him to his core seeing Hawkeye so vulnerable and afraid, how with the discovery of each new injury the anger that had bubbled just out of reach seemed to flare up and threaten to consume him, how painful it was to have his best friend in the whole world _hurting_ and not be able to do a thing about it…even if he tried, B.J. didn’t think he’d be able to say any of those things.

“Son.”

B.J. glanced up, grieved eyes searching Potter’s face. The weary soldier caught his gaze and held it.

“There are some things that knock you down and keep kicking. But not talking about it, no matter how painful, is not going to help anybody. Remember son, there’s a whole camp full of people who are worried about your other half, myself included. We’ll get through this together.”

The younger surgeon dropped his head back into his hands, his throat constricted with emotion. Flashes of Hawkeye’s bloody and bruised face tormented his thoughts. Swallowing thickly, he tried to figure out where to begin.

“Uh. Well. He’s…he’s resting now. Finally.” B.J. scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to push the image of Hawkeye from his mind. He kept his gaze rooted to the floor, hanging down and elbows resting on his legs.

“There was…he had…uh…I didn’t really get to finish examining him.” B.J. paused, remembering the haunted look in his best friend’s eyes. “But. Um. He has…a concussion, a broken nose…some bruising and cuts on his face, possible fracture to his orbital bone. Dislocated left shoulder…” The surgeon shuddered. Reliving this, retelling all he did and all that Hawkeye had been through, made his stomach flip.

“I didn’t get any further than that before he wanted to stop. He was able to walk okay, so…I don’t think he’s got any lower body injuries. I uh…I couldn’t get him to x-rays though, he was still pretty jumpy and I didn’t…I didn’t want to push him. Once he wakes up, I’ll get some pictures taken…and-and finish checking him out…”

A tense silence descended on the pair. B.J.’s eyes were still fixed to the floor, body bent over and tense. Potter had his lips pressed together in a firm line, the only other visible sign of his anger evidenced by the continual the wringing of his hands. He was stunned into silence. The laundry list of injuries categorized by B.J. left little to the imagination, and he hadn’t even gotten to finish the exam.

Potter was readying himself to break the quiet, words of comfort and guidance swirling in his mind. Before he could, B.J. started up again, his quiet voice tentative and dejected.

“He…he barely let me touch him, he was so afraid. When he first came to-” B.J. coughed harshly, trying to clear the tightness in his throat. “When he first came to, he…flinched away from me. That…haunted, _terrified_ look in his eye…I can’t get it out of my head, Colonel. It really…it wasn’t easy seeing him like that.”

Potter’s heart broke for the young man sitting in front of him. Seeing anyone like that would be tough, but seeing your best friend…well, he’d have to keep a close eye on the both of them.

B.J. finally sat up, arms crossing in front of his chest. His eyes were red, as much from exhaustion as emotion; his bearing exuding tension and turmoil. This was a man debilitated by his own thoughts and painful memories.

“I can’t imagine what that was like, Hunnicutt. I wish it was something neither of you two had to ever experience, but we can’t change what’s happened. All we can do now is figure out how best to…to move forward and fix this. Together.”

The older surgeon began to say something else, when he noticed the clock on the wall. His expression changed quickly from empathetic and warm, to steely-eyed and grim.

“Son. I don’t mean to cut this session short, but there’s something that’s about to happen, and I need your head level and temper in check.”

B.J. threw Potter a confused look, glancing behind him to see what could have shifted the Colonel’s attitude on a dime. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, besides Radar peeking through the window. He was nodding and gesturing over his shoulder.

“The MPs are bringing that soldier by for some questions. Now, when they come in here son, don’t go about getting any clever ideas and doing something you’ll regret.”

The colonel’s words settled like a cold knot in B.J.’s gut.

_Something you’ll regret._

A mirthless laugh escaped the Californian’s lips.

“Regret? _Regret_? Colonel, since I laid eyes on Hawkeye’s beaten body, his bruised and bloodied face, regret has been my silent companion. I’ve carried it with me in every step, heavy in my mind and my heart. I’ve wrestled with the feeling all night as it’s threatened to consume me. Anything that happens in this office will not be something I’ll regret. I can promise you that.”

B.J.’s words held a steely edge, a dark threat that was all but foreign to Potter’s ears. Suddenly, the door to the office swung open, halting whatever cautionary quip the colonel was about to tell his young surgeon. The last thought that crossed Potter’s mind was a silent prayer, hoping that he wouldn’t be filling out a second incident report any time soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revenge B.J. is coming next chapter promise! Until next time Swamp Rats!


	7. Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now, sergeant. We’re going to start with an easy question. And I do expect an answer. What in horse hockey gave you the bright idea to beat up a doctor?”
> 
> The man’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his cuffed hands into fists. His response was guttural and low; his words deadly sharp. 
> 
> “He killed my best friend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings Swamp Rats! Full disclosure: I'm not terribly happy with how this chapter turned out (a common theme for me). But nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy! From the bottom of my heart, thank you to those who have stuck with this story. Without further ado, here is the next installment!
> 
> Thanks to TacosAreTasty33 for the beta!

_He was reliving it._

_The ghosts of his attacker’s eyes burning in his mind, taunting him._

_The feel and sickening sound of knuckles meeting flesh._

_The hard edge of the man’s threatening words._

_Cold laughter punctuating boot kicks and punches._

_That sadistic, feral smile…_

Hawkeye woke with a start, heart pounding, gasping for air. He sat up reflexively, before every inch of him protested and rebelled at the movement. It pulled painfully at his ribs and shoulder, and had his head beating an incessant rhythm. He didn’t think he’d feel any worse if he had been run over by a jeep. Twice. Maybe three times.

He blinked his uninjured eye blearily as his surroundings came into focus.

“Hey, look who’s awake!”

Hawkeye was surprised to find that it was Margaret who was sitting in the chair by his cot. He was also surprised to realize that he was back in the Swamp. Vague memories of the night before floated into his mind, flashes of him in OR with B.J., the painful walk to the tent, B.J. unlacing his boots and staying up with him until he fell asleep…

Margaret folded down the page of her book and sat up, eyes expertly searching the surgeon’s face. She noticed how the corners of his eyes were wrinkled and his jaw clenched in a grimace; his hand was gripped tightly around the edge of the cot, knuckles white. The signs, picked up by her trained eye, all boiled down to one fundamental truth: her friend was in pain.

Worry tightened her throat as she stood up and moved to sit on the edge of the cot. She was distressed to see that her actions made Hawkeye flinch and shift slightly away from her. His good arm came up protectively around his ribs as he eyed her warily.

“How are you feeling? How’s the pain?”

Hawkeye stayed stubbornly silent, one cerulean, blood-shot eye fixated on her every move. Hesitantly, Margaret sat down near the head of the cot. Hawkeye immediately shifted even further away as his breathing anxiously hitched. He needed space, he needed _room_. Margaret was sitting too close, the walls of the tent felt too close, everything was just too damn _close_ …

He kicked the blanket off and gingerly put as much room between him and Margaret as he could. Hitting the edge of the cot, panic washed over him, his heart pounding in his ears. Margaret watched the shift in Hawkeye’s demeanor with thinly veiled concern; the apprehension in his face and actions breaking her heart. Biting her lip, she realized that what he needed right now was not a friend, but a nurse.

Slipping into the comfortable rhythm of care, Margaret carefully grabbed Hawkeye’s wrist and counted out his heart rate. She kept her movements within his eyesight so that she wouldn’t do anything to startle him or surprise him. After noting the elevated heart rate, she placed her hand on his forehead. It was damp, Margaret noted, but not overly warm. With the sun up and the temperature climbing towards the triple digits, a slightly raised temperature was not unusual. From what she gathered from Radar before he left, B.J. hadn’t been able to give Hawkeye a full exam the night before. With how he’d reacted to her sitting on the edge of the bed, she had a good guess as to why.

Margaret slowly brought her hand up and lightly grabbed Hawkeye’s chin. His unswollen eye widened at her touch. She guided his head to swing towards her, catching his fearful gaze with her concerned one. Keeping her eyes locked on his, Margaret quietly spoke.

“Just breathe, okay? Just breathe, Hawkeye. Nice and slow. You’re okay. You’re safe. Just breathe. That’s it. Breathe.”

A soothing hand found its way into his hair, and Hawkeye begrudgingly realized he was leaning into the touch. But his heart rate seemed to be slowing down, and whatever panic that had taken hold of him earlier was floating away. He sometimes forgot that Margaret was a damned fine nurse, the best he’d ever worked with if he was being honest.

After a minute or so, the tension seeped out of Hawkeye’s posture. He leaned his head back and away from Margaret’s hand, embarrassment flushing his cheeks. The surgeon cleared his throat and let his gaze drop to his cot. Amusedly, he realized that he was only in his shirt and shorts. If it were any other time, he might have been embarrassed to be so underdressed in front of the beautiful head nurse. But these were…unprecedented circumstances. He noticed angry red and purple splotches littering his right arm and legs, standing out starkly against his pale skin. Despite the heat, Hawkeye pulled the blanket from the end of the cot up and over his body, hiding most of his visible injuries.

Margaret dropped her hand back to her lap and fixed him with the eyes of a seasoned nurse.

“You feeling okay? Can I get you anything?”

Hawkeye threw her a guarded look and shook his head. The motion jump started the pounding in his temples that he had almost successfully ignored, making the surgeon groan in pain. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Margaret opened her mouth to ask is there was anything she could do. But Hawkeye held up a hand, riding out the pulses of pain that had begun to make themselves known. She gave him a sad smile, not wanting to push him, yet worried that he was in pain and there wasn’t much she could do until B.J. finished his full examination. As an unfortunate bonus, Hawkeye still hadn’t said anything. That was what worried Margaret most of all. Giving him a small pat on his leg, she got to her feet and retook her seat. Picking up her book, she blew a wisp of blonde hair out of her eyes.

“Why don’t you try and get some rest, Hawkeye?”

The injured man stared at her for a moment before deciding to relax back onto the cot. Hawkeye winced as he warily laid back down. He kept his breathing shallow and cautious; the tightness and discomfort of his ribs at the forefront of his mind. Good eye fluttering shut, Hawkeye attempted to ignore the pain that surged through his veins and the sticky heat that licked at his skin.

Margaret watched him over the top of her book. She couldn’t manage to look away, needing to watch him escape into the safety of sleep, needing to make sure that he was really, truly lying there in front of her. That he was okay, that he was _alive._ Before his breathing evened out all the way, the surgeon’s good eye suddenly shot open and he looked wildly towards B.J.’s bunk. Margaret could see the cogs whirring in Hawkeye’s mind, the question shining in his face. Glancing in her direction, he caught her eye. Fear and uncertainty dominated that swirling blue depth and it was all Margaret could do to keep herself from jumping up from her chair and enveloping her friend in a bone-crushing hug. Instead, she scooted her chair closer to the cot and placed a reassuring hand on his arm. It tore at her heart when he jumped at her touch and that he was shaking.

“He’ll be right back, Hawkeye,” Margaret soothed. “B.J. just went to talk to Colonel Potter for a second. He’ll be right back. I promise.”

Hawkeye looked skeptical for a moment, but grudgingly accepted the nurse’s explanation. He closed his eye again with a sigh. Thoughts of B.J. and the attack and the events of the night before swirled in his muddled brain. He heard the creak of the chair as Margaret sat back, the rustle of paper informing him that she’d opened her book back up. She quietly began to hum a tune he couldn’t quite place. He tried to focus on the peaceful melody as it danced through the stuffy, humid air. Hawkeye’s last thought, before he let his bone-deep exhaustion pull him back towards the sweet relief of unconsciousness, was of B.J.

* * *

“Steady, Hunnicutt,” Potter murmured in B.J.’s direction as the taller man got to his feet. His blue eyes were fixed on the soldier who was standing between the two MPs, large hands cuffed in front of him. Anger blossomed in B.J.’s chest as he noticed the bruises littering the man’s knuckles. 

He was broad in the shoulders and had at least an inch or two on B.J. There was a wicked look in his eye, that sort of dark, threatening demeanor that begged someone to challenge him. This was someone who always looked for a fight and who always came out on top. B.J. took a quivering breath and tried not to imagine this sergeant attacking Hawkeye; if he dwelled on the images of the man’s fists hitting Hawkeye’s face and his boots smashing into Hawkeye’s ribs, he might lose the little self-control he had left.

The MPs muscled the handcuffed soldier further into the office. The older looking one of the two tipped his helmet in Colonel Potter’s direction and cleared his throat.

“This here is Sergeant Harry Mackenzie. Member of the 160th Infantry Regiment. He came in yesterday when he brought his buddy and a few other soldiers in on a jeep. Besides that, we haven’t been able to get much out of him, Colonel.”

Potter nodded at the MP.

“Thank you, I appreciate the information. Now. Sergeant Mackenzie. There are a few things we should discuss.”

The soldier in question rolled his eyes, fixing the colonel with an unamused glare.

“Ain’t got nothing to say to you. Nor any of yous.”

Potter came around from behind his desk and leaned against the front of it, eyes jumping between B.J. and the handcuffed sergeant. At least from this position, he might be able to interfere if the Californian decided to act on his threats. Not that he definitely _would_ intervene. But the career army man liked to keep control of tense situations such as these; one wrong word or move and things could go to hell in a handbasket real fast. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and fixed the sergeant with a steely look over the brim of his glasses.

“Let me rephrase, sergeant. There are a few things we _are going_ to discuss.”

The soldier rolled his eyes at the commanding officer, posture and expression exuding indifference. Feeling eyes on him, Sergeant Mackenzie glanced towards B.J., noticing the threatening stare he was receiving from the taller surgeon. He returned it full force, a dark smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. 

A tense silence ensued. Not breaking eye contact, B.J. and Mackenzie continued to stare heatedly at one another. Potter cleared his throat, pulling the sergeant’s attention away from the fuming Californian. 

“Now, sergeant. We’re going to start with an easy question. And I do expect an answer. What in horse hockey gave you the bright idea to beat up a doctor?”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his cuffed hands into fists. His response was guttural and low; his words deadly sharp. 

“He killed my best friend.”

It was so simple a phrase, yet one that sent a chilling shock through Colonel Potter.

“He _killed_ him?”

“Rudy was still alive when I brought him and those other boys in on that jeep. He was breathing goddammit. But that doc _refused_ to treat him! Didn’t he know the shit I had to go through to get Rudy here? After all I did to save him, just-just to _give up on him_?! Well, I wasn’t ‘bout to let that go. The doc that killed Rudy was gunna pay,” Mackenzie clipped out, venom dripping in every syllable. 

B.J. could feel his heart quickening as the sergeant’s words sank in. A pre-op decision, a judgement call made in the blink of an eye, had led to this. A minor situation that spiraled so far out of control that this man had beaten Hawkeye to within an inch of his life for...for what? They’d all made hundreds of decisions like the one Hawkeye had made. If a man was too far gone, you had to let him go because in the time it took to bring him back from the brink of death, you might have saved three or four other soldiers. It wasn’t pretty, but what war ever was? B.J. could feel his hands clenching and unclenching, rage thrumming just beneath his skin.

He was dangerously close to crossing the office and delivering a long overdue punch straight to the sergeant’s smug face. Potter, trying to keep the hostility and surprise from his voice, continued the questioning.

“So you decided to make him pay, sergeant?”

The soldier grinned maliciously. 

“Damn straight I did. Waited ‘round for him to come out of surgery and ‘til he was alone. I just hope I killed that son of a bitc-”

B.J.’s fist connected squarely with Mackenzie’s jaw before he had a chance to finish his sentence. The sergeant reeled back on his heels, taking the two MPs holding him down to the ground with him. His bewilderment didn’t last long, as his expression morphed into one of barely concealed rage. He strained at the MPs who still held his arms but the two held fast. Snarling, the soldier lunged towards B.J.

With his knuckles throbbing, B.J. squatted down until he was eye to eye with the soldier. He had a dangerous glint swirling in the depths of his glare.

“That doctor’s name is Hawkeye Pierce, my best friend in the whole world, and he’s still alive, sorry to disappoint. Now, I’m sure that’s the only punch these MPs will let me get in. So let me say this.”

B.J. dropped his voice low, malice dripping from every word.

“If you come back as one of the wounded, you better pray that it’s not my table you wind up on. That surgeon you used as a punching bag? Well, he would do everything in his power to save you because that’s the kind of guy he is. But make no mistake, Sergeant: _I’m not that kind of guy_.”

The surgeon’s words had Mackenzie’s aura of angered nonchalance faltering. He blanched at B.J.'s whispered threat and swallowed thickly. His left cheek was already reddening from the blow, B.J. was pleasantly surprised to note. 

The MPs struggled to their feet, pulling Mackenzie up with them. He made a final lunge towards B.J., snarling and swearing at him. Colonel Potter crossed the room towards the commotion and placed a strong hand on B.J.’s upper arm as he guided him back to a standing position. 

“I think we’ve had quite enough of that,” Potter voiced gruffly. “Please escort the sergeant out of my office. I’ll send you a copy of my report by the end of the day.”

With a nod towards Colonel Potter, the two MPs manhandled the irate soldier from the room.

B.J., fuming and breathing heavily, stared at the door as it swung closed behind the group. He stood rooted in place, hands still clenched painfully, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Flashes of his fist connecting with the sergeant’s face, the accosting sound of flesh hitting flesh, danced through his mind. 

“Hunnicutt.”

B.J. blinked quickly, the colonel’s voice rousing him from his thoughts. He shook out his right hand, knuckles already throbbing from punching what felt like a block of concrete. Hissing at the discomfort the movement caused, he turned on his heel, eyes scanning Potter’s face. The older man wore a compassionate, grandfatherly expression. Any vestiges of anger that were coursing through B.J.’s veins dissipated at the look. He visibly deflated, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head slightly. With a knowing glint in his eye, Potter walked towards his liquor cabinet and filled two glasses with what looked to be scotch. It may not have been 7 am yet, but a drink was absolutely called for.

Holding a glass out in front of him, Potter sat down in his chair and motioned towards the open seat in front of the desk. Head hung and shoulders slumped down with some invisible weight, B.J. shuffled towards the desk and plopped down. Taking the offered drink, he downed it in one go, feeling the familiar burn in his throat. 

B.J. stared at the bottom of the glass, fiddling it anxiously between his hands, tactfully avoiding Potter’s gaze. He wasn’t entirely sure how the older man was going to react to what he’d done. Hell, he hadn’t even been aware of what he was going to do until he’d already done it. _Decisions made in anger can never be undone._

Mind racing, B.J. began to mentally prepare for a formal dressing down or a stern lecture. He figured one had to be coming; while he didn’t regret what he’d done, he wasn’t too keen on getting in trouble for it. Placing the glass lightly on the desktop, B.J. absentmindedly began to massage his throbbing right knuckles, already feeling them stiffening and bruising. Potter had stayed silent since saying the younger man’s name, tactfully watching and observing. He could see the internal struggle B.J. was wrestling with, weighing the justifications and the consequences of his actions. Potter grimaced in sympathy at the sight of B.J.’s already swelling hand. Coming around the side of the desk, Potter leaned against its edge, and clasped his hands in front of him. He debated for another few seconds about what to say and then huffed out a surprised chuckle. 

“Nice wallop, son. That soldier was down faster than an octopus on a ski slope.”

B.J. gave him a bemused look, but didn’t say anything. Potter sighed, placing a weathered hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Now son, I won’t condone what you did. But if you hadn’t hit him, I had my right fist cocked and ready. Let’s just make this a one-time deal, okay? It’ll be a lot less paperwork for me if you don’t go around punching people left and right.”

B.J. nodded absentmindedly, not really listening. A part of him was relieved the older surgeon didn’t seem to be angry, but a small voice in his head whispered that he had wanted the colonel to be angry with him. Potter had every right to be furious at him for what he’d done; hitting someone was an issue in and of itself, but if he’d broken his hand or even a finger, then the unit would be down two surgeons instead of just one. It was a selfish decision. Justified in a sense, and one B.J. would repeat in a heartbeat. Though…he couldn’t justify it completely to himself. 

He’d really _hit_ a man...something he couldn’t ever remember doing before. Something he hadn’t thought he was really capable of before he got here. But that _smug_ soldier, with his self-assured look and menacing demeanor, had gotten under his skin. And knowing that he waited around for Hawkeye, jumping him when he was least expecting it, beating him with no restraint or remorse, hoping he’d _killed_ him…

Anger burned like acid in his throat. He really meant what he’d said, that he wouldn’t save that soldier if he ever came back. Hearing his justification for beating up Hawkeye, smugly hoping he was dead...rage blinded him, and as his fist flew through the air, B.J. wanted to kill him. And that idea frightened him, more than he cared to admit. He’d give his life for Hawkeye, but did he really want to _take_ a life? For a moment there, if given the chance, the answer to that question was yes.

A tiny part of B.J.’s mind reminded him that before he came to Korea, he was always calm, never violent. Never raised a hand in anger or threatened violence when incensed. This war was changing him. A lot more than he thought. And that terrified him, too.

B.J. cleared his throat, keeping his eyes far away from the pointed stare of his commanding officer. He fidgeted in the seat and flexed his swelling hand, as the colonel gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“There’s nothing hunky-dory about a situation like this, son. So let’s not go around pretending that everything’s fine and dandy.”

B.J. nodded slowly and gave the older man a small smile. 

“You need to go grab some ice for that hand, Hunnicutt. And check back in on Pierce. If I remember correctly, he still has half an exam in his future.”

Exhaling tiredly, B.J. got to his feet. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead and tried to swallow the bitter taste the alcohol had left in his mouth. 

“Ice is something I don’t think we have any of right now, Colonel. Or didn’t you notice, it’s summer?”

Shaking his head, Potter returned to his seat and chuckled. He pushed his glasses further up on his nose and gave B.J. a good once over. The younger surgeon standing in front of him was a little worse for wear; dark circles hung under his bloodshot eyes, his right hand was red and his knuckles were swollen, and there was a tortured expression lining his face. 

“If I can do anything for you, son, just let me know.”

Dipping his head in an affirmative motion, B.J. turned towards the door. Before he pushed it open and left, he glanced back towards Potter. 

“Thanks, Colonel.”

As he exited the office, his emotions swirling and raging, B.J. had no clue what to do next. The throbbing pain in his knuckles kept him grounded as his mind raced. Sighing heavily, he meandered back towards the Swamp, intent on checking up on Hawkeye and how he was feeling, and finishing his examination from last night. Colonel Potter’s words floated back to the forefront of his mind, _If I can do anything for you, son, just let me know._ The offer had almost made B.J. laugh in consternation. All he wanted to do was help his best friend, but he didn’t know how. Every time he tried, he just seemed to make things worse. 

“How am I supposed to help him if he won’t even let me touch him?” B.J. whispered quietly to himself as the Swamp came into view. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next chapter (or two) will be dealing with all the whumpy, angsty, heartbreaking fall out from the attack, so stay tuned friends. Update coming soon (fingers crossed)!


	8. Let Me Heal Your Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His thumb rubbed absentmindedly against the rounded edge of Hawkeye’s palm. How had this man managed to slip beneath his skin and fill up every fiber of his being? Hawkeye had all the subtlety of a hurricane, crashing into his seemingly simple life and turning everything upside down. But upside down felt right-side up with him; Hawkeye made everything make sense. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I know it's been too long, I apologize! This chapter took on a life of its own and morphed from a filler chapter into one of the more lengthy additions. I just couldn't help the deep dive into B.J.'s psyche...sorry not sorry. I hope you all enjoy!

B.J. Hunnicutt had always been a reasonable man. Annoyingly, stubbornly so. It was a point of pride; he could bring logic and level-headedness to any situation, think things through purposefully, and come out on the other side with a collected and intelligent solution. At least that was the case before he stepped off the plane in Seoul and met one Benjamin Franklin Hawkeye Pierce. From that first moment until now, it had been a tumultuous whirlwind of high highs and low lows, with some insanity sprinkled in the middle. As days blurred and passed by, B.J. felt changed, different. Looking in the mirror sometimes he hardly recognized himself. That core of self-discipline, of control, was slowly being eroded away in this sorry excuse for a police action, half a world away from his home and his quiet, domestic life. With every bullet that flew and bomb that fell, with every soldier he stitched up and every kid who died on his table, he was losing little, jagged pieces of himself. He was not the same clean-shaven, impossibly green surgeon who arrived in country just a few months ago.

There was a part of him that was disconcertingly grateful the war had brought him this hodge-podge family of the 4077th. They made it bearable, in their own unique ways. But a terrifyingly truthful reality he’d discovered early on was that this place had the innate knack of bringing out the best and worst in individuals. So, despite how close he’d grown to these people, he could not deny the indisputable fact that this war was changing him. And he wasn’t entirely convinced it was for the better.

B.J. sighed, hand resting on the doorknob of the Swamp. Exhaustion tugged at his eyelids and inundated his body down to the very marrow of his bones. If he was lucky, he might be able to get a few winks in before Hawkeye was awake. But that was a big if. Besides, a little tiredness was nothing new, even if the “little” part of it was a blatant lie. There were other things, more important things, to worry about.

Pushing his spiraling thoughts to the back of his mind, B.J. quietly opened the door to the Swamp. Margaret, sitting with one leg crossed over the other in the chair by Hawkeye’s cot, glanced up at the movement. She quickly put a finger to her lips, motioning towards Hawkeye’s sleeping form. The older surgeon appeared to be resting, if not somewhat fitfully.

Waving her towards Frank’s side of the tent, B.J. collapsed onto the cot, letting out a small, albeit hushed, groan of relief. Margaret joined him, taking a seat on a closed trunk. B.J.’s brows knit in concern as he gestured with his chin towards Hawkeye.

“How’s he doing?” the surgeon whispered, eyes glued to Hawkeye’s resting form, taking in the rise and fall of his chest. Margaret hesitated slightly, biting her lip.

“He’s…well, Captain, I want to say that he’s fine, but that wouldn’t be the truth. I relieved Corporal O’Reilly not too long ago, and everything seemed to be alright. But when Pierce woke up, he…was pretty disoriented. Panicked. He wouldn’t even really let me take a good look at him, barely let me touch him at all. And he…he seemed…he doesn’t seem well.”

B.J. swallowed thickly, watching Hawkeye take another breath, needing to see the somewhat shaky inhales and shallow exhales. Needing to make sure he was still there, still breathing, still _alive_. He threw a slight nod in Margaret’s direction, his eyes never leaving the cot on the opposite side of the Swamp.

The two lapsed into a comfortable silence, both the head nurse and the worried surgeon too preoccupied for much small talk. Margaret nervously spun her engagement ring around her finger, biting her lower lip. As for B.J., he had decided he didn’t care for the deepening purple splotches adorning Hawkeye’s face, especially not the still swollen eye and puffy nose. And it turned his stomach to notice how the bruises were all sickeningly fist-shaped.

After a minute or two, Margaret cleared her throat, shifting her gaze back towards B.J.

“You know what’s funny? I always imagined a quiet Hawkeye was better than a loud Hawkeye. With the crude jokes, insatiable flirtations, and his down-right _annoying_ knack for interminable jabbering, I sometimes wished he would learn to _just stop talking_. But now that he has…I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit,” the head nurse admitted quietly. Tears welled in her eyes against her best efforts, her usual reserves of strength and resolve teetering on empty. She wasn’t as cold and unfeeling as she pretended to be; but confining herself to her army sized box of emotional detachment kept her mind sharply focused on the goals for her lengthy, and undoubtedly successful, future career. It was easier to lock all that messy stuff away and fall into the callous cookie cutter precision of army life, hiding away and detaching within a sea of olive drab green. Some days it was harder to shore up that undeterrable front. Today was one of those days for Major Margaret Houlihan.

Consciously swiping at the moisture in her eyes, Margaret got up from her seat. She straightened her blouse, adjusted her belt, patted down her hair, and re-straightened her uniform for good measure, removing any and all signs that there might be a chink in her armor. She squared her shoulders and cleared her throat, the picture of professionalism. 

“I’m due in post-op in a few minutes. Be sure to keep an eye on his breathing, especially if you’re worried about broken ribs. And he’s got quite a few…bruises on his legs that he wouldn’t let me examine. Once you’ve finished your exam, Captain, I’d like a full report.”

With an upward turn of her head, the major walked confidently towards the Swamp door. She never ceased to amaze B.J., and he doubted she ever would.

“Major.”

Margaret turned at B.J.’s voice, still hushed but spoken a little louder to get her attention.

“Thank you. Just…thank you, Margaret.”

The nurse smiled at the sincerity in the doctor’s tone, something hidden and unspoken lingering in her gaze, before she was gone. 

At the sound of the door closing, Hawkeye stirred, murmuring unintelligibly before falling back to sleep. B.J. got to his feet, blue eyes once again glued to the lanky frame. No matter who else was there or what else he should be doing, B.J.’s eyes kept finding their way back to Hawkeye. As if he needed the verification, the proof. The living, breathing confirmation that Sergeant What’s His Name hadn’t taken the best friend he’d ever had in the whole world away from him. The one person he was closest to, besides Peg. The one person whose insanity grounded him; whose pranks and merriment took his mind off the blood and the distance and the pain; whose whiplashing between exultation and melancholy kept him enraptured and on his toes. Without him, B.J didn’t think he’d have lasted five minutes.

B.J. sat wearily in the chair near Hawkeye’s cot, the one recently vacated by Margaret. He placed his chin in one hand, elbow propped up on his knee, while the other found its way to rest on the cot next to Hawkeye. He fought the subconscious urge to grab the hand that was lying atop the army issued blanket, fingers slightly curved and palm opening towards the tent ceiling. It’s not like Hawkeye was dying; he didn’t _need_ to hold his hand or anything like that. No drastic measures or emotional speeches. B.J. hated those anyhow.

With a sigh that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his soul, B.J. threw caution to the wind and slipped his hand into Hawkeye’s, squeezing gently. The physical touch focused him, forced him to be present. He was extremely cognizant of the smooth skin beneath his fingertips, the warmth and safety he felt at the touch. Closing his eyes, B.J. let out a shaky breath. Everything that had happened was…well it was horse hockey, to borrow Potter’s expression. There were a few choice four-letter words that came to mind that he’d prefer to use. However, with how quickly he’d been losing his temper recently, he didn’t need to give himself any leeway, or he might dissolve into swear-filled hostility. He desperately needed a cool head; no need to stoke those fires of rage that still burned hot and fierce in his chest. Calm. Controlled.

His thumb rubbed absentmindedly against the rounded edge of Hawkeye’s palm. More than anything he wanted to know for certain that he was in control of the unstable torrent of emotions welling inside of him. He was torn dizzyingly between scorching, revenge-fueled ire and wearisome despondency. And every time he took in the overwhelming number of injuries that littered Hawkeye’s body, it pushed him to the very precipice of that threadbare sense of control. How had this man managed to slip beneath his skin and fill up every fiber of his being? Hawkeye had all the subtlety of a hurricane, crashing into his seemingly simple life and turning everything upside down. But upside down felt right-side up with him; Hawkeye made everything make sense. 

Opening his eyes a fraction, B.J. gazed up at the sleeping man. He really shouldn’t be preoccupied with his own thoughts and feelings right now; his energy was needed elsewhere, specifically aimed at helping Hawkeye in whatever capacity, and with whatever he could, for the foreseeable future. 

Watching the steady rise and fall of Hawkeye’s chest calmed B.J.’s skittish nerves a fraction. But the worsening red and purple bruises extending across his friend’s face had his gut churning and set his teeth on edge.

It was bad enough they were in the middle of a war zone, patching up the bodies of teenagers only for them to either be thrown back in the meat grinder or be sent home irrevocably scarred. Amidst all the death and destruction, for something like this to happen…it defied logic, it defied all reason, it defied all good sense. Hearing that sergeant explain himself hadn’t even helped; the answers sounded idiotic at best, sadistic at worst. That man, who was a few screws short of a regulation set, had been a short fuse waiting to be set off. It unfortunately had to be Hawkeye that lit the match. 

Regret tightened in B.J.’s throat and left a sour taste in his mouth. It pressed like an uncomfortably immovable weight upon his chest, unyielding and merciless. That poison pill of bitter remorse burrowed itself in his brain, provoking the loathsome ruminations that began with “What If?”. 

If Hawkeye hadn’t offered to take pre-op duty from him, this might never have begun. 

If he’d asked Hawkeye about the commotion in pre-op, he might have decided leaving him alone wasn’t the best course of action until they could be certain that the soldier had left.

If only he’d gone with Hawkeye back to the Swamp, this whole mess might never have happened. 

In every scenario, the result was the same: his best friend wouldn’t have gotten hurt. He wouldn’t be lying in front of him, bruised and injured. 

“Oh, Hawk. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

B.J.’s voice broke on the last word as a single tear fell from his eye.

* * *

The first thing B.J. noticed was the itchy army blanket pressed against his face. He didn’t remember falling asleep, and yet here he was face down on the cot, back bent at an uncomfortable angle that would leave him sore for a few days, and an embarrassing pile of drool collecting beneath his parted lips. With a groan, he attempted to blink the vestiges of sleep from his eyes. Staying where he was sounded like a great idea, however the kinks already making themselves known in his neck and lower back convinced him it was time to move. Sitting up slowly, he scrubbed a hand down his face and wiped at the corner of his mouth. However long he’d been out hadn’t been enough to chip successfully away at the mountain of exhaustion he was toting, but it was better than nothing. 

B.J. stifled a yawn, noticing his other hand was still wrapped lightly around Hawkeye’s. Intending to remove it, he glanced up to check if the injured man was still asleep, and was startled to see one stormy blue eye open and looking intently at him. The Californian all but snatched his hand away from where it had been resting in Hawkeye’s grip and sat up straight, attention focused on his now conscious friend. 

“Morning, sunshine!” B.J. said breezily, a thousand-watt smile adorning his face. His embarrassment at noticing Hawkeye was awake was fading, replaced with a small amount of somewhat forced joviality and a heavier amount of unbridled concern. 

“How ya feeling, Hawk? Can I get you anything? How’s your head? Your eye? And nose? Oh, and your shoulder? I’m sure your chest isn’t feeling great, either. Is there anything else that hurts? Speaking of, I really should finish your exam, Hawk, no telling what else I might have missed last night…”

Hawkeye was watching him intently, one eyebrow raised in apparent amusement. B.J. trailed off, putting an awkward end to his rambling, uncertain as to why he felt nervousness bubbling behind his sternum. It couldn’t still be about holding Hawkeye’s hand, because that would just be silly. So incredibly silly and...and just so obviously untrue. Because that was nothing to even _worry_ about, or spend energy thinking over. Or overthinking. 

Clearing his throat, B.J. gazed imploringly over at the injured man, waiting for some kind of an answer. Hawkeye didn’t immediately offer one. Instead, he brought his hand up to his face, fingers running lightly over his split lip, bandaged nose, swollen eye, and the dressing on the side of his head. Hawkeye looked pensive, calculating. He moved to check the sling on his shoulder, and tested it with a little movement. He hissed in discomfort, but it felt better than it had the night previously. Skipping any assessment of his ribs, which Hawkeye could tell were injured without extra attention, he continued his survey. He finished his mental tally with a wiggle of his ankles and knees, satisfied that despite a hefty dose of soreness and stiffness, he didn’t have any irreparable damage. In total, it was really just his ribs and head that were giving him the most trouble. With a few days’ rest, and keeping his movements restricted to what was absolutely necessary, Hawkeye determined a positive prognosis for his recovery. 

“S-So, soldier. Come here often?” Hawkeye rasped out, the dryness of his throat dulling the suave delivery.

His voice may have been tired and scratchy and hoarse, but those were the sweetest words B.J. had heard in a very long time. The younger man couldn’t help the overjoyed laugh that escaped his lips, the toothy grin that stretched from ear to ear.

“He speaks!”

Hawkeye tried to match his grin with one of his own, but it came out looking more like a grimace, as the movement pulled uncomfortably at his bruised face.

“H-hey, Beej,” the surgeon huffed as he tested out sitting up. A few winces and grunts of pain later, and Hawkeye was leaning upright against his and B.J.’s pillows.

The pair sat there for a few moments, silence stretching between them, neither one quite knowing how to break it. There were a lot of things each of them felt like saying, the words tickling the tips of their tongues.

Things they wanted to say about what had happened.

But maybe this wasn’t the time or place for talks that like.

And there were a lot of things each of them felt like doing.

But maybe it also wasn’t the time or place for wrapping Hawkeye up in the biggest hug, a tenderness shining in his eyes, and crying with relief that he was alive and awake and here again. So as much as B.J. wanted to do that…he didn’t.

And maybe it wasn’t the time or place to give into the pain and exhaustion, to let B.J. see beneath his mask, show him the fear that nibbled at the back of his mind and had him jumping at every loud noise or quick movement. So as much as Hawkeye wanted to, he didn’t.

The silence stretched on.

Hawkeye was acutely aware of just how much whole body _hurt_ , and how he was more tired than he could remember being. He threw a side glance towards B.J., whose knee was bouncing nervously. The surgeon had a faraway look on his face as his eyes stared unseeingly towards Hawkeye’s cot. Trying to ignore the dull ache that had taken root behind his eyes, Hawkeye raised up his good hand and raked it through his unkempt hair.

The movement startled B.J. out of his stupor. Whatever thoughts that had previously consumed him were all quickly abandoned and hidden neatly away. Leaning forward on his knees, he clasped his hands and fixed Hawkeye with an appraising look, steely eyes narrowed with concern.

“Wanna tell me how you’re feeling now…?”

The older man shrugged.

“I…I’ve had worse.”

B.J.’s eyebrows shot up, his surprise evident. _Worse?_ And even though he didn’t want to believe it, something in the way Hawkeye had nonchalantly thrown that out told B.J. that what he’d said was true. He watched as Hawkeye began to pick absentmindedly at the edge of the blanket, purposefully avoiding his gaze. _Huh._ He wasn’t sure what was more troublesome: knowing Hawkeye had been hurt worse than this at some point in his life, or that the surgeon seemed so…casual about it.

Whenever Hawkeye Pierce had something to say, or was overcome with emotion, the entirety of Korea was made aware. He was boisterous, mercurial, goofy, obnoxious, loyal, and sometimes manic. It was hard to understand that there were parts of Hawkeye’s life that B.J. was unaware of. Things that he hadn’t shared with the Californian.

“Okayyyy…well. You may have had worse, but I’m more worried about how you’re feeling right _now_.”

Hawkeye grunted in resignation, the eye roll he threw at B.J. lacking any real heat. It seemed to say, in no uncertain terms: _I’m fine._

“And how could I forget!” B.J. exclaimed, ignoring the eye roll and slapping his left hand against his knee. “I’m cashing in on that promise: you, me, and a romantic rendezvous in the x-ray room.”

The saccharine smile on B.J.’s face had Hawkeye regretting his late-night promise. The last thing he wanted to do right now was move.

Opening his mouth to protest, Hawkeye’s gaze flicked down, skittering across B.J.’s swollen hand. He didn’t seem to recognize any issue at first, so he raised his stare back up towards to B.J.’s face. But almost immediately, he looked back down, his one blue eye widening. Anything Hawkeye had been planning on saying was quickly thrown out in favor of scrutinizing the purplish-red discoloration.

“What’s…wrong…with your…hand?” Hawkeye scrounged out, voice barely more than a whisper.

_Shit._

B.J. hid his right hand in his left as excuses pinged around his mind. Clearing his throat, he tried to force a smile.

“Oh, it was silly really. I smacked it against Colonel Potter’s office door earlier this morning. Just a bruise. I’m perfectly alright.”

Hawkeye quirked a challenging eyebrow. Waving his hand indifferently, B.J. tried to keep his tone light.

“Okay…maybe that sergeant is sporting a new black eye and my knuckles are a little sore from smacking into a great impression of a brick wall. But really Hawk, it’s _you_ we’re worried about.”

Anger blazed swift and fierce on the injured man’s face.

“Well that…that was…of all the stupid things to do Beej!”

Hawkeye’s voice was regaining some of its previous strength, and all of its personality.

“What if you’d broken your hand, hmm? Or what if he’d hit back?”

Whatever reaction he’d been expecting, anger wasn’t it. B.J. narrowed his eyes at his roommate. Anger wasn’t even anywhere near the top of the list for emotions B.J. had been anticipating. While B.J. hadn’t planned to let Hawkeye know about his little skirmish with that brute so _soon_ , it appeared that Hawkeye was living up to his name today.

“Who cares! That sergeant almost _killed_ you, Hawk. One punch barely begins to make up for that!” B.J. responded, his own temper flaring and his voice rising with each word.

“I…that…it wasn’t worth the trouble, Beej! Not worth it at all…”

 _I’m not worth it_ , was really the thought that was echoing in Hawkeye’s mind. But he tried not to let that show.

B.J. breathed out a challenging scoff.

“Who are you to tell me if it was worth it or not? That was _my_ choice to make! Mine! And I’d make it again, Hawk. Broken hand or retaliation be damned.”

Hawkeye fixed his fiery gaze on B.J., focusing intently on the man’s stubborn scowl. He grumbled something that sounded vaguely like _Still not worth it_.

With a frustrated sigh, B.J. leaned back in his seat.

“Let me be the judge of that, okay?”

Hawkeye opened his mouth to retaliate, but thought better of it. The flash of anger had burned out just as quickly as it had come on. He deflated back against the pillows, energy spent.

He knew he wasn’t actually mad at B.J. There was even a small part of him that was touched, flattered; B.J. wasn’t a man easily swayed to violence, and yet he’d actually hit someone because they’d hit _him._ Without saying it, Hawkeye knew that B.J. had his back. That he cared. Not that Hawkeye ever doubted that, with how close the two had come since B.J. had arrived, but it was still nice to be reminded.

The memory of B.J.’s hand in his as he slowly ventured back to consciousness washed away any remnants of his earlier frustration. He lifted his eye from where he’d been burning a hole into the blanket covering his lap to catch B.J.’s gaze. The Californian stared back, his own anger dissipating.

Smacking his palms against his knees, the Californian got to his feet, decision made.

“Can I interest you in a stroll towards post-op? X-ray is going to be packed this late in the morning, we better hurry if we want good seats.”

It was an olive branch of sorts. A light-hearted joke was their equivalent of a peace talk, one that the pair had used on numerous occasions. It was hardly surprising the two got into tiffs every now and again, especially with the confounding, overwhelming whirlwind of personality and emotion that was one Hawkeye Pierce. Tempers flared, and retreated all in the span of a few minutes. An hour at most. And then they’d be back to their kidding and joking and laughing, typically at someone else’s expense.

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m usually not that kind of girl, Beej…but for you, I could make an exception. I hear Klinger got his hands on a new Katherine Hepburn film. And a dress to match.”

B.J. knew Hawkeye was performing for his benefit. The remark had been an attempt at his usual gaudy humor, and while B.J. could see fear hiding in his blue eye, pain pushing his mouth into a firm line, and an uncomfortable stiffness in the way he held himself, it was a start.

* * *

The surgeons walked slowly towards post-op, whispers following them with every step. Though he tried not to, Hawkeye leaned heavily against B.J., using the taller man for support more and more as they progressed.

B.J. did his best to keep Hawkeye’s mind off of the painful stroll. He distracted him with anything that popped into his mind: the mess tent coffee, his last letter to Peg, Radar’s new pet, and Klinger’s latest effort for a section 8. Hawkeye may have already heard these stories, but it was better than having him focused on the way people were looking at them or how agonizing the short walk was. And it distracted B.J. from paying too much attention to how Hawkeye would flinch away if someone got too close or how his breathing would hitch if a loud noise caught him off guard.

Shuffling them into the x-ray room, B.J. didn’t cease his ramblings. Now that they were out and about, Hawkeye seemed to have reverted back to his catatonic state of muteness. While he may have caught a glimpse of the old Hawkeye in the Swamp, B.J. knew the road ahead would be long and difficult. It might be some time before his best friend was back to his usual self.

He tried not to stare at the patchwork of bruises that littered Hawkeye’s torso as he helped the injured man out of his shirt. It was an unpleasant process, with each movement eliciting a groan of pain from the patient and an inward curse from the doctor. As much as he didn’t want to look, B.J. hated to see that a number of the bruises were boot shaped. There were so many. Too many.

 _And Hawkeye had been through_ _worse_?

Stepping behind the protective shield, B.J. threw on his cheesiest grin. He may feel useless in easing Hawkeye’s pain, he may feel indecisive about how to fix this mess, and he may feel troubled as to why seeing Hawkeye’s battered torso made his blood boil unlike anything else ever had. But he’d do his best to make Hawkeye feel just a little bit better.

“Smile for the camera!”

Hawkeye gave it his best effort. It was a tight smile, one that didn’t make his nose or face hurt too much, and didn't quite reach his eyes. But that small grin made B.J.’s heart soar. He decided right then and there that after he finished the x-rays and exam, and after he’d settled Hawkeye back into the Swamp, his first stop would be Colonel Potter’s office. Because he may not know exactly how to handle this situation or how best to help Hawkeye heal, but he knew of a certain poker-loving psychiatrist who just might be well suited for the job.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I crave affirmation so please please comment/leave kudos if you liked it! Until next time Swamp Rats!


	9. These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sidney Freedman comes for a visit, ready to lend a helping hand to the hurting 4077th.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Sorry this has taken so long. Other fics have just been popping up and taking my attention away from this one. Not terribly satisfied with it, but I'm posting this short, filler chapter nonetheless! I hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S. the real angst/feels is coming next! 
> 
> P.P.S. italics are for flashbacks/internal thoughts in this chapter!

_“We need to get Sidney up here, Colonel. Now. Whatever it takes. I’ve done all I can for Hawk’s physical injuries. But we’re going to need some real help for…everything else,” B.J. uttered gruffly, frustration evident in his crossed arms and cross expression._

_Colonel Potter nodded, melancholy misting in his tired eyes._

_“One step ahead of you, Hunnicutt. I’ve got Radar patching the call through now.”_

_B.J. gave the older surgeon a distracted nod. He absentmindedly began to massage his aching knuckles as he followed Potter out to Radar’s desk, only half listening as his commanding officer explained the extended stay that awaited Sergeant Mackenzie in Leavenworth..._

* * *

“Sidney! It’s been too long!” B.J. exclaimed, clapping a hand on the psychiatrist’s back. The older man climbed out of the driver’s seat with a loud huff, swiping an arm across his forehead and readjusting his green cap.

“Don’t you hate it when the war gets in the way of a good poker game?”

B.J. laughed, grabbing Sidney’s bag and steering him towards the VIP tent.

“I haven’t lost nearly enough money in the past two weeks, so I figured it was about time to get the gang back together.”

Sidney gave a slight chuckle before pursing his lips, fully in observation mode. As discretely as he could, he scrutinized the tall surgeon, who had continued talking about the planned game that night, oblivious to the psychiatrist’s watchful gaze.

B.J. looked tired, and much older than the last time he’d been here. The smile the surgeon had worn since Sidney arrived seemed too forced, the joviality not reflecting in his piercing blue eyes. As B.J. readjusted his grip on the suitcase, Sidney couldn’t help but notice the yellowing bruises adorning his right hand. The psychiatrist raised a questioning eyebrow before casually clearing his throat.

“So, I hear that there was a bit of a to-do around here last week.”

Midstride, B.J. stopped, his eyes darting around. There were too many prying eyes and ears, too many people with bored curiosity around to give Sidney any attempt at an appropriate answer.

_Let’s take this somewhere more private, shall we?_

B.J. crossed quickly towards the VIP tent. He opened the door for Sidney, motioning inside with the suitcase and a slight nod of his head.

Once they were both within the privacy of the tent, and B.J. was certain no unsuspecting or suspecting passerby could hear, he fixed the psychiatrist with a leveling stare. 

“No one is really talking about it, Sidney. We thought it was best to just carry on as usual, not bringing it up in front of Hawk. But…I don’t know, I’m kind of out of my depth here…”

The surgeon trailed off, voice barely above a whisper. He wasn’t sure why he was whispering, but it just seemed like one of those conversations that was supposed to happen in hushed voices.

Setting the doctor’s bag down near the freshly made cot, B.J. turned quickly on his heel and started to pace in the tiny room. Trying to channel his pent-up emotions and frustrations and worries into something semi-productive.

“I assumed there was more to it than just another poker game,” Sidney responded, a solemnness in his face, thoughtful eyes tracing B.J.’s movements. “Want to talk about it?”

The taller surgeon scoffed and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.

_Talk. I don’t want to talk I want to act. To fix this. To do something._

“I called you here for Hawkeye, Sidney,” B.J. deadpanned, stopping his pacing to fix the psychiatrist with an intense stare.

The absolute, most definite _last_ thing he wanted to do at this moment was think about his own feelings; to face the music and come to terms with all the mess that had been swirling inside of him for days.

Focusing his energy, and Sidney’s attention, on Hawkeye was easier. So, so much easier.

He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he was dodging the question. Deflecting and obfuscating and avoiding. B.J knew it and Sidney knew it, but thankfully the psychiatrist didn’t push.

“Fair enough.”

Sidney watched as B.J. resumed wearing holes into the VIP tent floor.

When he’d received the call yesterday morning, Colonel Potter had sounded like he hadn’t slept in a week and the strain he was undoubtedly feeling leaked through with every word. The commanding officer had been vague, discrete, only offering up rudimentary details. But it had been the way the colonel had spoken, sounding urgent and even _scared_ , that had gotten Sidney up and in the first jeep he could find.

To say Sidney was worried would be an understatement.

Hawkeye Pierce wasn’t the easiest nut to crack on a good day, and he wagered a good day had never been had in the time Hawkeye had been on Korean soil. The psychiatrist definitely had his work cut out for him with the young man from Maine; but he also had to keep a close eye on the other members of this hodge-podge family. Especially the tall, brooding man in front of him.

There was something bothering B.J. Hunnicutt. And just maybe he could help two for the price of one.

* * *

Sidney’s presence melted into the day to day routine of the 4077th. It was nice having the psychiatrist around; he spent time with each of them, talking and joking or just listening. Between him and Father Mulcahy, most of the camp was back on the track to normal. The “event”, as it was now called in hushed whispers across beds in post-op or the dark corners of the officer’s club, was but a small patchwork in the quilt of horrible experiences this war was dishing out to everyone.

Everyone was coping and dealing and moving past that dreadful night.

Well, everyone besides Hawkeye.

And B.J.

A barrage of wounded kept the Californian’s mind and hands busy. It was a useful excuse for getting out of talking with Sidney, Father Mulcahy, Potter, even Margaret. As terrible as it was to admit, he was thankful for the deluge, as it kept him focused on something that he could control and something he was good at.

But the OR felt too different without the boisterous, always-with-a-joke-up-his-sleeve dark-haired surgeon. While it acted as a twisted escape, B.J. also hated being in there more than usual. It was so…quiet. Besides the clanking of instruments and barked orders for suction, no one said a word. Silence descended on the blood-stained room as heavily as the summer storm pounded sheets of rain on the camp.

The quiet was something that no one quite knew how to break. It was almost as if it was some unspoken rule they all adhered to; not speaking because Hawkeye wasn’t.

* * *

It had been raining for three days straight, a steady stream from charcoal gray clouds that turned the dirt into a muddy mess. Thankfully the pouring down from the heavens was not matched by a new pouring in of wounded.

B.J. sat on the edge of his cot, hands wringing, lost in thought.

Being the only surgeon besides Colonel Potter, because really Frank was more trouble (and caused more trouble) than he was worth, had made the last few days stressful. And busy. Very busy. After that first swarm of wounded no more had come in, but B.J. had still been occupied checking charts, shipping patients out, covering shifts in post-op. All busy work he had thrown himself into and lost himself inside. Because then he wouldn’t have to think. Or feel. Or remember.

His jacket and pants were soaked but he couldn’t bring himself to care. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had dry boots. Or dry anything.

But the thing he was most concerned with at the moment was not his sopping clothing. It was Hawkeye, and everything he had been trying so hard to avoid thinking about the last few days.

B.J. sighed, not liking all this free time he now found himself with. Or the fact that this freedom would be spent contemplating, discounting, analyzing, ignoring, overthinking, underthinking, avoiding, confronting. Thinking about how angry he’d been, angry enough to hit another person. About how tormented he was, seeing Hawkeye in pain and not being able to help. About how almost losing Hawkeye had sent him teetering towards the edge of sanity. About how every waking moment he wanted to be by Hawkeye’s side, had a burning need to make sure he was alright.

_Upside down felt right-side up with him, Hawkeye made everything make sense._

The first time he had thought that, it had shocked him, his mind protesting the validity of the statement, excuses and objections forming on his lips. But every time after, B.J. knew those words could only be one thing: true.

Hawkeye’s brush with death had rocked B.J. to his core. The fact that the dark-haired surgeon had said he’d had worse was also troubling. There were just too many jumbled thoughts in his brain, too many things he was thinking and feeling that he couldn’t define or place or deal with.

_God, I need a drink._

B.J. rose slowly to his feet and shuffled to the still. He watched as the bitter liquid sloshed into the depths of the martini glass, filling the cup with what would be the first of many drinks.

Hawkeye was having a bad influence on him.

He had come to this bloody police action a clean shaven, green, naïve, married family man. And now what was he?

B.J. didn’t have a good answer to that.

As he sipped the hour old gin, his mind regrettably, painfully circled back to his roommate.

His brutally beaten but healing roommate.

Who had been talking to Sidney Freedman for the past two hours.

The psychiatrist was the only other person Hawkeye had felt comfortable enough to talk to and to be in close proximity with the past few days. Hawkeye had spent time with the psychiatrist sporadically, talking for a few minutes here and there, other times disappearing for hours. Like today.

B.J. didn’t push Hawkeye about these talks.

Whatever he had shared with Sidney was between the two of them.

The Californian just hoped that it was helping.

With the familiar burn of gin coursing down his throat, B.J. focused on the memory of the feel of Hawkeye’s palm against his thumb, because that was more pleasant than thinking about the patchwork of bruises he’d seen littering Hawkeye’s torso that morning in the x-ray room.

* * *

_A quick rap on the door stole B.J.’s attention from his letter to Peg. His eyes flicked to Hawkeye’s cot, and was relieved to see that he was still passed out. Crossing to the door, B.J. threw the visitor a tight smile and kept his voice consciously low._

_“Hey Sidney, Hawkeye’s asleep. You’re more than welcome to check back in later…”_

_The psychiatrist shook his head, eyeing B.J. with a penetrating gaze._

_“Actually, B.J., it was you I was looking for. Why don’t we take a walk?”_

_Trying not to let the apprehension show on his face, B.J. closed the Swamp door behind him and fell into step beside Sidney. He’d successfully avoided any and all one-on-one conversations with the doctor up until this point, but B.J. knew there was no escape now._

_And maybe a small part of him wanted this, needed someone to talk to…_

_The two exchanged some pleasantries before slipping into an uncomfortable silence, mostly on B.J.’s part. The major seemed unperturbed. Trying to put himself at ease more than anything, B.J. cleared his throat and attempted to infuse some levity into the situation._

_“I like a sunlit walk through the heavily shelled, Korean countryside as much as the next guy, Sidney. But why’d you really ask me out here?”_

_The psychiatrist shoved his hands into his pockets before fixing B.J. with a pointed look._

_“I’ve got a few observations to share with you. And a few questions to ask, if you don’t mind.” Sidney paused. “You don’t have to respond or answer in any way. I just had hoped that maybe while I’m here, you could benefit from having a friend to talk to...”_

* * *

Sidney tossed his bag into the back of the idling jeep. B.J. watched, hands stuffed in pockets, not entirely convinced that the psychiatrist should be leaving just yet.

“So, you’re needed elsewhere?”

Throwing a nod in B.J.’s direction, Sidney slid into the driver’s seat.

“There’s crazier units than the 4077th that require my attention. But I’ll be back soon to win back some of that money you swindled off of me in the game last week.”

“Sidney…”

B.J. trailed off, uncertain exactly how to put this in words. Tormented blue eyes met empathetic brown ones and Sidney understood.

“Right. Hawkeye.”

The hesitant, pleading look in B.J.’s eyes told the psychiatrist he’d hit the figurative nail on the head.

“He’s…” Sidney hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “He’s going to be okay. Eventually. His wounds will heal and his mind will make sense of all that’s happened.”

B.J. blinked down at him, waiting for Sidney to continue. Needing some sort of plan or solution, hoping the major had cracked the riddle on how best to help Hawkeye.

“Umm, anything else?”

Sidney glanced up at the anguished, indecisive surgeon.

“Keep doing exactly what you’re doing, B.J. He’ll come around. He just needs some time and space, and before you know it, he’ll be on his way back to normal. Or whatever normal looks like for Hawkeye and this place.”

B.J. opened his mouth to ask Sidney for something clearer, a laundry list of helpful hints or a step-by-step instruction manual. The psychiatrist held up a halting hand, again seeming to know exactly what the taller man was thinking.

“He’ll come out of this alright, he’s stronger than we give him credit for.”

It wasn’t the answer B.J. had been looking for, but it seemed to be the only one the psychiatrist was giving.

“And don’t forget what we talked about, either. It might you do you a spot of good, B.J.”

Sidney stared imploringly up at the surgeon. Knowing that in time the two men would both be alright, because in the middle of this mess, at least they had each other. It was a lot more than a lot of people had here.

With a final wave of his hand and a knowing smile, Sidney was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll hopefully update this quicker than last time! Thanks for reading, comments/kudos always appreciated. And be sure to pay close attention to tags/warnings as this story progresses, things are about to get a little dark!

**Author's Note:**

> That's all folks, thanks for reading! (: Please comment if you enjoyed it, I like knowing if people are interested in new M*A*S*H fics.


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